


By But a Simple Arrow

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Coming of Age, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On one of Anders' many escapes from Kinloch Hold he runs into a Dalish clan, and while he has no expectations of being accepted, there's something about one of their hunters that he just can't get out of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Theron Mahariel knows these woods; they are as familiar as his skin, and as well-traveled as the paths he walks in dreams. Every step is spongy with moss and dead leaves; his bare feet sink softly into the forest floor as he pads steadily deeper, silent and determined.   
  
He lost the deer hours ago; it darted past him when the sun was too high for shadow, and now he walked through stripes of darkness and light while night threatened to fall. Tracking the animal was easy, but it was young and fast, and possibly enjoying the chase. It would not be the first time a Dalish hunter lost a day to a playful animal, but patience came easily as he followed the trail, bow and arrow loose in his grasp.   
  
The air was thick with pine and smoke, and though he was far from camp he knew the bonfire was crackling. Regardless of whether or not he caught this deer, the clan would be sitting for supper soon. A branch snapped and his ears twitched upwards, the ambient noises of the forest increasing in volume as he turned his head slowly, straining for the source of that sound. There was a rustle behind him and he spun, nocking his arrow and pulling the bow string taut in one graceful, sleek motion, then freezing, pale eyes wide in disbelief.   
  
Standing before him was a halla, pure white and regal, its coat shaggy and knotted with burrs. This was no tame beast, escaped from a Dalish clan. It had all the bearings and attitudes of a wild animal, and its horns were growing at odd, unusual angles, untouched by the knife of a halla keeper. But according to the stories told to the children, there were no wild halla. The great white deer had been tame as shemlen oxen since the days of Arlathan, and every halla born since then was brought into the world by the tender hand of a halla keeper. This beast could not exist.  
  
Awestruck, Theron lowered his bow, staring with lips pressed firmly together to stifle even the sound of his breath as the animal took a tentative step closer. Its black eyes were intelligent, and when it neared there was a splash of dark reddish-brown on its back leg, a crude metal bear trap still attached to it. Shem hunted in these forests too, and were often careless with their traps. The halla must have had the misfortune to step on one while its jaws were still open. Dropping his bow, Theron sunk to his knees, reverently whispering a suddenly remembered prayer to Ghilan’nain as he coaxed the halla near. Under its thick fur, the muscles in its flank twitched as it shuffled from side to side, understanding but still gripped by that intrinsic fear held by all prey animals. It snuffled and snorted, pawing the ground with one fine hoof as it slowly advanced. Theron made himself small, no difficult task, and bared his palms to the beast. He meant no harm, but he did not expect the animal to understand.  
  
They faced one another, hunter and prey, worshiper and worshiped, head bowed to horns held high, and finally the halla came near. The scent of blood filled the air as every movement caused the teeth of the trap to shift, dull metal scraping against torn hide. It turned, wary and slow, to place its wounded leg directly in front of Theron, the muscle twitching, jumpy and nervous, as it stopped.   
  
It was a poorly made trap, stuck together hastily from bad hinges and scrap metal, and pain shot through Theron’s hand the moment he touched it. The metal was raw, rusted and ragged, and blood oozed from his fingers as he tried from a different angle, grabbing a flat bit and holding it down as he pried the trap open just enough for the animal to loose its leg.   
  
Favoring its back leg, the halla bounded a few steps away from the trap, then turned to stare as it snapped closed again. Theron kicked it aside in disgust, wiping his bloody hands on his soft leather leggings before opening his hip pouch and pulling out a roll of clean, rough bandages, and a handful of green leaves. Sitting back on his heels, he tore the leaves and pressed them firmly into the palm of his wounded hand, hissing inwardly at the sting as he clenched his fist around the camphorous pulp. Eyes squinted shut to the pain, he wrapped it tightly, tucking one end of the bandage in to hold it on. He should have brought poultices; there were plenty at camp, and one or two would not have weighed him down any more than the elfroot did. Marethari would never let him hear the end of that misjudgment.   
  
When he opened his eyes, the halla was still there, far closer than Theron would have expected. Every elvhen child grew up hearing stories of halla carrying knights into battle, and there was no stopping those fancies from creeping into his mind as he watched the beast move gracefully nearer to him again, so light on its feet that it seemed to glide. Theron inhaled a quick, shaky gasp as the Halla came close enough to touch him, folding its legs and settling down with a huff. It nudged his hand with a wet nose, watching Theron with dark, knowing eyes, lowering its head when he raised his hand to stroke its muzzle.   
  
“You’re beautiful,” Theron said, his voice no more than a whisper. Carefully, he ran his fingers over the halla’s soft snout, a smile breaking over his face when the deer twitched its ears. Avoiding the halla’s antlers, he brushed his hand back to touch one of those ears, and clamped his lips to muffle the cry of joy as the beast leaned its head into his hand. “Thank you. Oh, Ghilan’nain, thank you.”   
  
The Creators of the Dalish were said to be locked away, never to be seen until the dread wolf was vanquished, but Theron was convinced that right now, in this forest, the Halla Mother had come to him with a task. He was not sure that simply rescuing the halla from the trap was sufficient, and as he stroked the soft nose of the wild animal, he said silent prayers of thanks, beseeching the goddess to keep the clan’s halla hale and hardy.  
  
It was night when the halla once again got to its feet, stepping tentatively away from Theron. He knew he should have returned to camp hours ago, but even if a dragon had come lumbering through the woods, his only thought would be to protect the halla. The beast shook its great head, then with impressive speed bounded off into the darkness, a flash of white swallowed by the pitch black sky, the canopy covering whatever light might have been cast by the moon and stars. At Theron’s feet there lay a curling shard of horn, and he picked it up, running a gentle finger over the blunt tip. He raised that hand to his face and traced the dark red vallaslin, tracing the similar curls, a tribute to the mother of halla.   
  
He held the horn to his heart and fell back on the mossy ground, laughing, exhilarated, and overjoyed.


	2. Chapter 2

_“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,”_ said some fellow whose name Anders could not remember, and was convinced was currently unimportant. Anders’ journey had started with dressing as a woman and being shoved off of the back of a horse, and he was sure that no philosophers had any words of wisdom about that situation. But despite the sprained ankle and bruised pride—it hurt more than he expected to be told he made a hideous woman—he was free, and there was nothing that could be better than that. There was also the upside of not being drenched to the bone in stagnant lake water this time, though seeing the looks on the Templars faces’ when he had dived into Lake Calenhad and swam off was priceless. Though his ankle throbbed when he put weight on it, he chuckled, then outright laughed like a madman into the black sky.

Anders’ good humor was short lived as he realized his ankle was far more injured than he previously thought, broken rather than sprained, and without lyrium he would not be able to heal it fully without completely exhausting himself. Moving and doing so soon was paramount; the templars would find him if he stayed in one position for too long, so passing out was not an option unless he wanted to wake up in a cell in Kinloch Hold. Spending a long moment thinking, gauging the amount of magic he could expend without depleting himself fully, he found himself distracted by how bright the stars were and how good the air smelled. No musty, moth-eaten misama here, just pine and smoke and clean, rushing water.

With his hand to his ankle, he slipped his fingers through the Veil, grasping a tiny portion of the raw Fade, no bigger than a grain of sand, and bringing it out. It buzzed in his fingertips, and he shoved it into his ankle, his mind focused on healing and rejuvenation, on knitting bones and stitching muscle. His hand grew camphor cool and soothing, and he gritted his teeth while the mending took place, trying not to cry out in pain, lest someone was already looking for him. Not that noise would make a lot of difference in whether or not they caught up with him—they had his phylactery, all he could hope for was a good head start.

His ankle was still swollen and sore, but he could at least put weight on it without sharp pain shooting up his entire leg. A small improvement, but now he could walk. It would be easier with his staff, but his foresight had been particularly poor this time. Outside of the robes under his discarded dress, a handful of sovereigns stolen from Templars using them to bet on card games, and a pair of clean socks stuffed into the leg of his trousers, Anders had nothing on him that was useful for escaping and living in the run. He didn’t care; the lure of freedom was so great that if the only way he could accomplish it was by running into the woods naked, without a single possession to his name, he would do so.

He had boots at least, dry ones, and in the darkness his movements would be concealed, so he began to walk without destination. All he wanted was to move away from the tower, and since that’s where he had been going when he was thrown from the horse, continuing in the general direction seemed like the best idea. Favoring his left leg, he began walking towards a copse of trees, deciding that winding in between undergrowth and pines would make it easier for him to hide. It did, but he underestimated how rocky and uneven the forest floor would be, and after an hour of travel his leg hurt too much to continue.

Upon finding a small clearing, Anders lowered himself onto a fallen tree and leaned his arms on his knees as he caught his breath. It was never quiet like this in the Circle; Templars were always clanking down the halls, looking in on the long rows of bunk beds. Apprentices would silence, and when the sound of platemail was nearly inaudible they would break out into whispers and rustles and other, more illicit noises. Not a single night passed without squeaking beds or sobbing, making sleep difficult and relaxation impossible. Now there were crickets, and the distant, mournful calls of owls and hounds, indistinguishable from one another to Anders’ ears.

The wind picked up, shifting the branches above Anders’ head, and he caught a glimpse of something pale just a few steps from where he was sitting. He froze, wondering if a small animal was nesting with him in the clearing—a rabbit, he decided—and not wanting to disturb it too much. It looked too big for a rabbit, though the only animals Anders had recently seen were either cats, mabari, or illustrations in a book, so he wasn’t entirely sure how large a rabbit ought to be. Curiosity got the better of him as he got to his feet and crept towards the pale thing on the ground, his eyes widening as he realized it wasn’t a rabbit—it was a human foot.

It took him a moment of staring to realize it wasn’t a corpse, and another to realize the body laying prone on the forest floor was that of an elf, not a human. There were few elves in the Circle, even fewer that would venture out of their small circle of friends to speak to him, and before the age of twelve he had simply never seen one. The elf stirred, and Anders started, stepping back from him lest he wake and feel threatened by seeing a stranger bending over him. But as the elf moved, he tilted his face into the moonlight, exposing the extensive red tattoos. He was beautiful, and Anders was transfixed. He crouched to examine the elf’s face; he was Dalish, if the book by Brother Genitivi was correct, and Anders looked him over in awe, noting his bare feet and leather leggings, and the bow and arrow just within his reach. The elf was clutching something in his right hand, holding it near to his breast, and Anders cocked his head to the side to try and discern what it was, not noticing that the elf’s eyes were slowly opening.

There was a confused scramble when the elf jerked up and grabbed his bow, dropping the item in his right hand and rolling to his feet to nock an arrow. Anders fell backwards in surprise, raising his arms over his head in instinctive surrender.

“Stay back, shemlen!” the elf hissed, and Anders swallowed hard as the arrow was trained on him.

“Look, I’m unarmed,” he said, holding his hands out, fingers splayed as if he could have been holding a blade between them. “And I’m injured.”

“You’re a mage,” the elf said, his voice suspicious, and Anders’ brow knit in confusion. It seemed impossible that he could have figured that out so quickly, if at all, but he didn’t bother puzzling over it.

“I’m a healer,” he said carefully. “Look, I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Go home, shem.”

“I can’t.” Anders winced when the elf’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have a home—I escaped the Circle of Magi at Kinloch Hold. You’re Dalish, you know the horrors the Chantry are responsible for, you know of the Exalted March.” The Dalish lowered his bow slightly, his brow furrowed. “I just want to live as a free man. I didn’t know there were Dalish elves in this forest—I haven’t even been outside in eight years.” That wasn’t true; Anders had escaped four times prior, though he had never gotten this far. He hoped the Dalish wasn’t any good at telling when someone was lying, or at least that this lie was particularly believable.

The elf lowered his bow, though his eyes were still narrow and he moved like a feral cat, wary and slow, never taking his gaze off of Anders. “Kinloch Hold is three days walk from here. How did you get here if you escaped?”

“There was a visiting Bann, dropping off an apostate they found hiding in his bannorn,” Anders said, feeling no reason to lie any further. “I…dressed like a lady and snuck out with his entourage. He had horses. We’d ridden for half a day before they even noticed I wasn’t originally with the group.” The elf raised one eyebrow. “They tossed me off the horse and I broke my leg. I mended what I could but I’ll lose consciousness if I do any more. So here I am. Stuck in a forest with an elf pointing a weapon at me. Oh, and my name is Anders—you might as well know now that I’ve told you my life story.”

The elf sighed, dropping his bow and putting the arrow away in its quiver. “You’re lucky.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Anders said before he could stop himself.

“If I had been any other member of my clan, you would be dead now.” The elf crouched and picked up the object he had dropped, slipping it into a pouch on his hip.

“You’re bleeding,” Anders said lightly, pointing to the elf’s bandaged hand.

“It’s nothing. The healer will stitch it up when I return.”

“I could heal it for you,” Anders offered, sitting up now, still nervous, though his heart was no longer threatening to escape by way of his throat.

“No.” The elf stood, offering the hand without the bandage to Anders, his face exasperated when Anders hesitated in taking it. The elf’s hand was small in his, but there was strength behind it, and the elf hauled him to his feet before releasing it. “You’re going to talk to the Keeper.”

“Not that I’m not appreciative, but I thought you said the rest of your clan would murder me.” The elf turned his back on him, and Anders had to hold his breath not to gasp at the long red scar on the elf’s pale neck. It was fairly new, no more than three years old, if he was judging it correctly. It had not yet faded into shiny whiteness, still raised and thick, and there was no mistaking what had happened by the placement—somebody had tried to cut off the elf’s ear. “What’s your name?” Anders asked gently.

“It doesn’t matter. Follow me.”

“I can’t just call you ‘elf’.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t have to call me anything,” the elf said as they walked. His step was light and quick, and within moments he had gotten too far out in front of Anders for him to keep up. He stopped and turned, cocking his hip as he waited. “It’s Mahariel.”

“Well,” said Anders, wincing when he put weight on his injured leg. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mahariel.”

“No, it’s really not. Now come on, Marethari will want to see you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Theron walked in silence, wishing the man behind him would do the same. Even when he stopped speaking, which only happened once during the long trek back to camp, he stumbled through the trail like a bear just woken from hibernation, clumsy and loud. It was clear now that he wasn’t lying about the injured ankle; twice he stopped, wincing in pain, to lean against a tree and take his weight off of the offending leg. On the second time, Theron considered stopping and offering to bind it, just so he would be able to walk without tripping or yelping in pain, but the less he intervened with this shem the better. When the sails of the aravels came into view, dark red and flapping lazily in the breeze, he held up a hand to indicate that the man behind him should stop.

“You will stay here while I speak with the Keeper. You can sit if you so choose.”   
  
“How in the bloody Void did you get so far from camp on foot?” Anders asked, dropping onto a stump with a grunt. He had broken into a cold sweat ages ago and was afraid to check his ankle. If it was even half as swollen as it felt, he was in trouble. Without lyrium he would have to wait until he was fully rested, and even then he simply didn’t have the energy to heal it all in one go. Pain sapped his strength, and without even a bedroll to sleep on, recovery was going to take time. Mahariel didn’t answer him; Anders was used to that already, and he watched him disappear into the bushes around the camp, leaving hardly a disturbed branch in his wake. **  
**

The camp was asleep; Theron knew it would be. Dawn was still several hours away, and though there was likely a sentry posted somewhere near the most obvious entrance, there was no activity anywhere in the clearing. As he silently moved towards the Keeper’s aravel he wondered if a hunting party had been sent out for him. Somehow he doubted it, and the truth in that thought made him feel old and forgotten. He realized that he had felt that way for some time now and sighed in frustration. The door to Marethari’s aravel was closed but not locked, and Theron rapped lightly on it, waiting. When Marethari stepped out, looking nowhere near as disheveled as she should for someone who was just woken from sleep, Theron took a few steps back and bowed his head politely at her.

“What is it da’len?” she asked, and he swore there was weariness in her voice. As Keeper, it was her job to keep the clan safe and protect their lore, a job which Theron guessed weighed heavily on the heart of any Keeper in any clan. “It is not yet morning, is there trouble?”

“Perhaps,” Theron said, instinctively touching the pouch on his hip, the one with the shed halla horn. “There was a shemlen in the forest, a mage. He is badly injured.”

“I see.” Marethari stepped back into the aravel, returning with a cloak and her staff. “You brought him to camp?”

“I brought him near camp. He is not far, but he will not follow; he is having difficulty walking.”

“I see.” Marethari tapped her finger against her chin. “Gather a bedroll, a tent, firewood and kindling. Once you have done that, lead me to where he is.” Theron scrunched his nose in distaste, but bowed his head again and made to leave. “Theron?”

“Yes Keeper?”

“If I allow him to stay it will not be inside camp, and his welfare will be your responsibility.”

“I understand, Keeper.”

“Are you troubled, da’len?” she asked gently, her voice kind, but falling short of motherly.

“My ear hurts,” Theron replied, and bowed again before going to do what she asked of him.

Just when Anders thought the elf had simply left him behind, he saw movement from the direction of camp. A few minutes passed, and he started when an unbelievably delicate female elf stepped through the undergrowth. She carried a mage’s staff, and Anders’ eyes lit up. He had always read that the Dalish elves had free mages (apostates, said the books) who operated outside of the influence of the Chantry. The books warned that they were dangerous; Anders thought they sounded wonderful. Pain shot through his leg when he tried to stand to give the woman some sort of respect, and she held up a hand to stop him.

“You may stay seated, Mage. My hunter tells me that you are hurt, and it is not necessary for you to injure yourself further to give me deference I know you do not believe you owe.” Anders returned to his seat, profoundly relieved. He studied the elf in front of him; she was terribly small, with bird-like wrists and a head that seemed almost undersized for her enormous green eyes. She gazed at Anders with naked appraisal, her expression vague.

“Yes, I was thrown from a horse and broke my ankle. I’m a healer; I did what I could, but it’s still in bad shape.” Out of the corner of his eye Anders saw the other elf, Mahariel, enter the clearing with a large bundle. He dropped it carelessly, then squatted, pushing a pile of wood to one side.

“You are lucky,” Marethari said, sounding amused.

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” Anders said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You are alive, and we are giving you a place to stay; you are better off than you would have been had you not met our hunter.” Marethari eyed Anders curiously. “You are an apostate, but you have the look about you of a Circle mage. Am I correct?” Anders nodded. “Templars do not often harass our camps; our hunters drive them off if they try. I shall allow you stay near the camp until you are healed, so long as you do not endanger the clan. That, Ser Mage, is why you are lucky. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Thank you for your kindness um…is Keeper a proper address?” Anders asked, awkwardly offering her a hand, letting it hang in mid-air for a moment before he put it back in his lap. To his left, Mahariel was pitching a tent, a single-minded sort of concentration on his pretty face.

“You may call me that, yes.” Marethari glanced at the tent. “Theron will bring you poultices and bandages, as well as food and drink.” Theron’s head shot up and he gave Marethari an unreadable look, casting his eyes to the side as he returned to his work on the tent. “You should be thanking him. Not I.” Anders nodded yet again, unsure of what to say to her. “Remember that Dalish clans are not in the habit of aiding shemlen, and that the exception we make for you is an extraordinary one.”

“Of course, thank you again Keeper,” Anders said as politely as he could manage. He was tired, hungry, and the pain in his ankle only grew. Maintaining a respectful veneer was the best he could manage right now. If she asked him to tell her the story of his escape he felt he might just start sobbing out of frustration alone.

“Do not attempt to enter camp unless you are invited,” Marethari warned. “Our hunters are swift.”

“I understand,” said Anders wearily.

Giving Theron one last glance, Marethari returned to camp, the soft sigh escaping her lips unknown to either Anders or Theron. She did not blame Mahariel, though she was beginning to lose patience with him. However she understood far too well what drove him, and there was nothing that could be done about the past.

The tent was up moments after Marethari disappeared, and Theron tossed the bedroll inside before looking for rocks to build a firepit. He felt Anders’ eyes on him, and was mildly annoyed that he was being watched. He picked up a rock and shot the mage a look. “What?” he asked sharply, dropping a pile of rocks near the tent.

“Sorry. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Noted.”

Anders sighed and rested his head in his hands. It could have been worse. There was a tent, a bedroll, and there would be a fire soon enough. Leg aside, he was free, and had some semblance of protection for a short time at least. Ignoring Mahariel’s surly attitude, he looked up at the sky. There were stars, thousands of them, silver and sparkling against the immense blackness. Had it really been eight years since he had spent a night outside of Kinloch Hold? Were the stars the same as they had been since he was twelve? Thinking those same stars were there the entire time that he spent as a prisoner in the Circle was profoundly depressing. The world just kept moving; he could not understand how the Circle thought that he could stay content inside the tower knowing that.  

He glanced sidelong at Mahariel, who the Keeper had called Theron, wishing he was even somewhat amiable. A civil acquaintance would be nice, but a friend would be absolutely amazing. He had barely made friends in the tower; there was Karl, but he wasn’t sure he would call him a friend. He was something though, and his chest ached to know he was still in the tower. It was his choice though; Anders knew that.

Theron finished digging the firepit and shoved the trowel into the loop on his belt. With the gathered rocks he built a circle outside of the pit. The last thing they needed was the camp burning down because some fool shem didn’t know how to properly make a fire, and if he was one of the mages the Chantry kept captive it was unlikely that he’d ever had to take care of himself in the wilderness. With the pit built and shored up, he dumped the kindling into it before building a small triangle with the wood.

“I can light that,” Anders offered eagerly, pouting when Theron shook his head.

“Save your energy. It is better used healing yourself than by doing the work of a flint and steel.”

“Is your name Theron or Mahariel?” Anders asked, shifting on the stump to watch him with the flint and steel.

“It’s both. Mahariel is my surname.” Sparks flew and caught the kindling, smoke rising as Theron crouched to blow on it. After a few moments the fire was bursting with life, flames licking the dark sky. With light, Anders could better see the tattoos on Theron’s face, a looping pattern of organic curves, coming to points on his cheeks and chin. He didn’t even want to think about how much the tattoo on the bridge of his nose hurt, and was determined to also ignore the compulsion to touch it. “Stay here. I will bring you water and bandages.”

The heat from the fire was pleasant, so Anders lowered himself onto the ground near it, pulling up his pant leg to finally peek at his ankle. It was not bleeding, which was good, but the ugly purple-black stain on his skin was not. Comparing it to his other leg, he was able to discern that it had swollen by quite a bit, though it wasn’t as bad as he was dreading.

Theron returned more quickly this time, carrying a pouch and a waterskin. He tossed the latter to Anders, who caught it, but just barely, awkwardly bouncing it between his hands. From the pouch he handed him a jar of mashed elfroot poultice, a roll of bandage and some strips of jerky.

“How long ago did you get that scar behind your ear?” Anders asked, regretting it immediately when Theron froze up. “I was just wondering because I could probably make it a little less noticeable…I can’t fix scars, you know, but it’s still red so it’s probably fairly recent; I could do som—”

“Shut up, shem,” Theron hissed and threw the sack at Anders, his teeth clenched. “Some of us need our scars.” Anders looked in the bag to avoid his gaze; inside there was flat doughy bread, brown on both sides. His stomach growled. He couldn’t remember what his last meal had been, or when he ate it. “I will bring you something more in the morning.”

“Thank you. I mean it. I know the Dalish avoid humans and I’m grateful you took me into your care. I have spent eight years as a prisoner, and this has been the kindest welcome the world has given me since then,” Anders said earnestly, trying once more to get into the good graces of his new benefactor. Theron’s face softened by a slight measure.

“Your other welcomes must have been cruel indeed.”

“Why do you think I keep telling you I’m not lucky?” Anders asked, managing a laugh when the corner of Theron’s lips curled.

“Sleep, mage, and in the morning you will have more food.”

“You can call me Anders, in fact, I’d prefer if you would.”

“I don’t care what you prefer,  _Anders_.” Without so much as a wave, Theron turned and started for camp. Anders let him go, peering into the bag again. Under the bread there was a soft but edible apple, and he took that out and bit into it, closing his eyes as the juice rolled down his chin. The wind, the smoke, the fire, the elves and the apples, they were overwhelming, sensual, and when the apple was finished and his fingers were licked, he crawled into his tent, feeling both like a child and a man. As he drifted off to sleep, the bedroll beneath him lumpy but welcome, he decided that freedom felt like a volatile mixture of uncertainty and joy.  

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was the sun that woke Anders, not the birds. Noise was constant in Kinloch Hold, and if you were good enough at fooling yourself you could pretend the clanking of silverware and rustling of robes was the sound of birds in the trees. Anders had never been good at fooling himself, but he was a sound sleeper. Though birdsong and breeze barely registered on the edges of his unconsciousness, the sunlight was unbearable when it passed over his face. He squinted at the top of the tent, the canvas brighter than all the torches and candles in Kinloch Hold. The tent was thin, ragged, and torn in one corner, and the bedroll underneath Anders’ back was threadbare and uneven. A rock was stabbing him in the kidney and his leg felt like a cart had rolled over it.

It was glorious. 

For a while he just lay there, feeling fresh air seeping in through holes in the tent, listening to the subtle noises of the forest. In the distance, he thought he could hear people talking and wondered if it was elves at the Dalish camp. He couldn’t really be sure; the sound was so far away that it barely registered as speech. It could have easily been water tumbling over rocks in a stream, or a couple of birds squabbling with one another over the best place to roost. Anders closed his eyes again, hoping that if this was a dream—and he was convinced that it was—he would at least wake up outside of solitary. The thought of that black, hollow room gave him a shiver, and the searing pain of bone scraping bone shot up his ankle and into his knee. 

It would be just his luck to hallucinate something so beautiful only to wake up on the dirty straw palette in the dungeon, and the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He was now convinced that the jagged rock pressing into his back was part of the unyielding stone floor, and that the sound of footsteps moving through the forest was the shifting robes of an approaching templar. 

Anders placed his hand over his face, briefly blocking the light as he dragged it down, feeling the rasp of overgrown stubble when his fingers passed over his chin. With an absurd laugh, he realized that he’d left his shaving kit behind, tucked into the drawer next to the bunk bed he shared with a small, squirrelly apprentice. How that man had passed his Harrowing, Anders would never know. But that meant nothing now, because Anders knew he was either lost in some giddy figment of his subconscious, or actually somewhere in the forests of Ferelden, near a camp of Dalish elves. 

“You should come out of the tent if you want something to eat.” 

The quiet voice startled Anders so much that when he abruptly sat up he knocked into the main brace of the tent, bringing it down onto his head. Flushing red with embarrassment, he threw the canvas off, trying to ignore the derisive snort coming from somewhere just outside of his little camp.

“Was that necessary?” Theron’s voice was flat, just on the tolerant side of annoyed, and he lowered himself onto the ground near the fire, looking dejected as he rested his elbows on his knees. 

“Had it been intentional then I’m sure I would have a good reason for it,” said Anders. The sun was terribly bright, making it necessary for him to squint. His eyes were more used to dim candles and sputtering torches; the full light of the sun, splendid and strong, took some getting used to.

When his eyes adjusted, he found something else that would take getting used to.

Elves in the tower looked nothing like Theron. Compared to him, the Circle’s elves were domesticated. Their ears were slightly blunt, and they spoke in low-class Alienage tongue while keeping their eyes downcast and submissive. They learned early that Templars loved to harass misbehaving elves. 

Theron’s eyes were strange and pale, and they locked warily with Anders’ while the mage untangled himself from the tent. Anders was certain that Templars would have no idea what to do with Theron Mahariel. Crouching by the fire, his bare torso all scars, his shoulders mottled with tannish freckles, Theron looked like a wild animal, beautiful in his ferocity. His messy hair, startlingly red, was held back by a fastener of leather and horn, and the scar exposed on his neck was deep, the edges ragged. It tore at Anders’ healer’s heart. 

“I take it you don’t know how to pitch a tent,” Theron said. Were it not for the melodic lilt of his low voice, Anders would have felt chastened. Instead he was entranced, driven by a particularly foolish strain of curiosity that encouraged silly things like trying to touch the elf’s ears, or lifting him up to see how much someone so small must weigh. Those impulses he managed to contain, but the one that always had him sassing Templars was not so easily dampened.  

“Oh, of course! Templars love taking dangerous mages for walkies and teaching them to fend for themselves when they escape!” Anders said, setting his voice into a familiar tone of genial mockery.

Anders swore that Theron used another disgusted snort to muffle a chuckle. Whether he found the sarcasm amusing or was just laughing at Anders’ difficulty with the tent didn’t matter—laughter always worked in Anders’ favor. Encouraged, he lifted himself, wincing as pain sparked through his leg. The bones were nearly set, but the muscles stung with angry throbbing. Lowering himself to the stump near the dying fire was difficult, but getting his weight off his leg was an enormous relief. 

A battered tin plate full of food sat on the ground near the stump. Anders recognized eggs and some kind of root vegetables, along with more of the flat bread from the night before. He had a brief moment of curiosity about the eggs, wondering if the Dalish kept chickens or if they bought eggs from human settlements. An unbidden memory of walking delicately through his family’s chicken coop with a basket in the crook of his arm washed over him, and he could feel the warmth of a smooth, just-laid egg weighing heavy in his hand. He looked away from the plate, instead watching Theron meticulously rebuilding the tent, his movements driven by focused purpose. 

Anders hadn’t thought of his family for years; it was a habit he had tried hard to break once realizing that, even if he escaped, finding them again would be an impossibility. To have something as simple as an egg bring back memories of them was uncomfortable. He glanced back to the plate and was struck by another memory—a Templar shoving a plate of food at him before closing the slit in the door. Anders wondered if he’d be fed like this the entire time he stayed on the clan’s land; separated from the group and alone. 

“If you don’t like it, there’s nothing else,” Theron said. Anders looked up to find that the tent had been pitched masterfully, and Theron was standing next to it with his hands on his hips. His breeches were low slung, the waistline dipping below a taut, thin belly, and Anders quickly lifted his gaze to meet Theron’s eyes, finding that looking any lower was fairly dangerous. 

“I didn’t want to eat in front of you when you didn’t have anything,” Anders lied. “It’s not polite.” 

“I’ve eaten.” Theron rolled his eyes. “It’s mid-morning; I’ve already been hunting once. Not all of us have the luxury of sleeping all day like shems.” 

“Thank you for letting me sleep in, then, I guess,” Anders said, lifting the plate off the ground to balance it precariously on his knee. There were no utensils, and he eyed the food curiously while trying how to get the greatest amount in his mouth while making the least mess of it. 

“Use the bread to scoop everything up,” Theron said with waning patience. He stepped out of clearing briefly and returned with more wood, stacking it on the dying fire. Anders tore off a corner of the bread and used it to lift a pile of eggs to his mouth. It might have been the fresh air, or the sun, or the quiet whisper of the leaves rustling, but Anders was convinced that this was the best food he’d ever tasted. ****


	5. Chapter 5

Theron left the mage’s clearing feeling unsettled, though he was unable to pinpoint exactly what had left his nerves raw. Despite being a mage, the shem was clearly harmless, and would likely starve to death or get eaten by wolves if left to his own devices. There was no threat of him attacking the camp or drawing others to it, seeing that he was on the run and injured. He was gracious and polite, rarities for a shemlen, but all the same, there was something about him that set Theron on edge. That he couldn’t figure it out what it was that bothered him only upset him more, and he returned to the Dalish camp deep in thought, only superficially watching the ground as he walked.

Though his preoccupied thoughts kept him from properly viewing the camp, he could feel it around him in the warmth of the cooking fire and the still air where breeze was blocked by the semi-circle of aravels. The air was thick with smoke and cedar, tanning hide and pine. Elvhen children rushed by him, one tagging him playfully on his bare back, and he gave them a distracted smile as they ran off, leaping and yelping, catching the leader of the procession to roll around on the ground with her, wrestling and growling. He supposed they were playing werewolf again; that was always the favorite game after hearing Hahren Paivel tell stories about the beasts in the Brecillian forest. The younglings would be gasping at every wolf howl for the next month if they were anything like Tamlen when was a child.

At the thought of Tamlen, his nebulous worries about the mage who called himself Anders dissolved into a hazy lump in the back of his mind. Tamlen took precedence, as always, and Theron looked about the camp for his clanmate, the ghost of a smile on his placid face as he searched. He found Pol, the flatear from Denerim, escaped from an alienage and wanting to reclaim his heritage. A noble goal, Theron supposed, though the rest of the clan was as wary of Pol as they would have been of a human. It would take time for him to truly be accepted--time and an expression of loyalty. It would come--the stories Pol told about the alienage were horrifying, and made Theron think the young man would do anything necessary if it meant he didn't ever return to that terrible place.

Lost again in his thoughts, Theron did not hear the rabbit-soft footfalls behind him until a light hand rested on his shoulder. He jerked, twisting to face the person who touched him and Merrill, embarrassed and shy, pulled her hand away from him.

"I'm sorry! It's just that I called for you and you didn't answer. I thought you might not be alright--you are alright, aren't you?" Merrill's rapid speech did not conceal the genuine concern in her voice, and she clasped her hands together in front of her, as if to prove she wouldn't try to touch him again.

"I was just thinking," said Theron, making a concerted effort to relax his posture. Merrill was skittish, nervous even around the clan, but he didn't blame her. Since none of the Sabrae had shown an aptitude for magic, a trade between Merrill's clan had to be negotiated at the most recent Arlathvhen. Three of their best hunters had been traded for Merrill, and it was clear that even after six years she was still acclimating to her new clan. She tried, but there was an insularity that was hard to penetrate, made all the more difficult due to Merrill's status as First to the Keeper. "I am sorry to have worried you."

"Oh, well you think quite deeply then," Merrill said with a smile. "I must have said your name three times."

"I'm good at tuning things out; it's necessary for a hunter to be able to listen for deer or wolves in the forest."

"Ooooh, yes, I suppose it must be." Merrill shifted her weight from one foot to the other, digging her toes into the dirt. "My clan never taught me to hunt, but I understand why. Oh! But I meant to ask you! I heard you found a human in the woods! Is it true? It sounds like such a silly rumor, but I had to know!" Merrill's wide eyes were full of curiosity and eager interest.

"There is a human, yes," Theron answered calmly. "I did not find him though; he happened upon me while I slept, and after hearing his story I brought him to camp for Keeper Marethari to handle." The group of children went rampaging by, all growling and snarling now, taking exaggeratedly large steps. It seemed as though all of them were pretending to be werewolves now, sniffing the air until they spied one of the other children and took after them with whoops and howls.

"Creators!" Merrill raised her hands to her mouth. "Were you frightened?" Theron gave a small shrug. "I would have been terribly frightened. I've never seen a human alone, only with the clan nearby."

Theron swallowed hard and lifted his hand to his neck, rubbing it, fingers tracing the ugly scar behind his ear. "It was nothing. He was traveling with a broken leg and was no threat. Had I not brought him to the outskirts of camp, he would have likely made a good meal for the wolves." Theron's brow knitted. "Human or not, that is a miserable fate."

"It was very brave of you to bring him here," Merrill said with a decisive nod. "Where is he now? Is he in an aravel, recovering?"

"He's outside of camp still. He has a tent and a fire and will be quite safe without coming into the camp proper." Theron watched as Keeper Marethari walked past one of the aravels. She glanced at Theron knowingly, then started a conversation with Hahran Paivel. The children barreled past her, quickly quieting until they were out of her sight. "He is safer there than he would be here, in fact," Theron said. Abruptly changing the topic, he spoke again before Merrill could, asking if she'd seen Tamlen recently.

"I think he was napping behind the big aravel, but don't tell him I told you. Master Ilen is looking for him again and I don't want him to get in trouble."

"I won't. Thank you, Merrill," Theron said, favoring her with a smile. "In fact, I'll go wake him."

He found Tamlen behind the aravel, just as Merrill said. The sun was streaming through the trees and Tamlen had stretched himself out in the sunlight like a cat. He was not roused by Theron's footsteps, nor by the soft sound of Theron resting his body a few feet away from him. Theron put his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees while he watched Tamlen's bare chest rising and falling with the slow rhythms of sleep. The sun made his pale hair shine, and his skin had a ruddy cast from running around shirtless in the summer warmth. Tamlen turned his head to the side, eyelids fluttering while he slept, dreaming, and Theron felt his heart stumble over itself in his chest, skipping a beat then piling two on top of one another to make up for it.

After watching him for some time Theron got closer, crouching next to his prone body, near enough to touch him but without the nerve to do so. "Lethallin," he said softly. "Lethallin, wake up. It's the middle of the day and you'll be in trouble if someone finds you."

Slowly, Tamlen's eyes began to open, unfocused and squinting into the sunlight, but he turned to face Theron who had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying foolish things about Tamlen's eyes. They were blue, but they were so much more than blue--they were sea and river and the darkening sky and cornflowers and they were the most beautiful shade that Theron had ever seen. Theron's chest went tight and his pulse fluttered in his throat and temples.

"It would be you, wouldn't it?" Tamlen asked with a groan, complaining but not unkindly. "I was having the most wonderful dream."

"You'll get in trouble for not practicing your craft," Theron said after clearing his throat. Tamlen rolled those beautiful eyes and scoffed.

"I'm a hunter, not a craftsman. I have no talent for woodworking and Master Ilen knows it. He just likes yelling at me when I fail." Tamlen rested his forearm over his eyes. "You should lie down with me, lethallin. A rest now and then would do you good."

After a long moment, Theron scooted closer to Tamlen, sitting cross legged near him, his knee resting against Tamlen's leg.

"Are you afraid of me all of a sudden, lethallin? You used to sit in my lap with your head on my shoulder when we were children," Tamlen said, his voice full of friendly mockery. "I never thought I'd see the day when you were too skittish to nap with me."

"We're not children anymore," Theron said warily, tracing the long, lean lines of Tamlen's bare chest with his eyes, bringing his teeth down on his lower lip to see the fine blond hair trailing up from his trousers to his belly button. "We haven't been for a long time."

"Have you outgrown me, Theron?" Tamlen uncovered his eyes to better pout at Theron, his face lighting up with mischievous victory when Theron unfolded himself to lie down. "You're right though," Tamlen admitted with a frown. "I overhead the elders talking about marrying me off to one of the sister clans. It was inevitable, I guess."

Despite himself, Theron wrapped an arm around Tamlen, resting his hand on one shoulder and pressing his forehead into the other. The chill that came over him at those words left his cheek bloodless and his heart a trembling mess. "They're not serious, are they?"

Tamlen shrugged, then shifted, returning the hug by working an arm under Theron and stroking his back. "I was hoping Merrill would have me," Tamlen said with disappointment. "She steadfastly refuses any interest, though, so it looks like I'll be sent off in exchange for dowry."

"When?"

"Who knows."

Theron furrowed his brow, hiding his worry in Tamlen’s shoulder, focusing hard on the absent patterns Tamlen traced on his back. “Do you--” Theron began, but his voice caught in his throat and he was forced to clear it to continue. “Do you want to come to my aravel tonight?”

“Didn’t you just say we weren’t children anymore?” Tamlen asked, lifting his head slightly. “If anything, I’d figure you’d grown out of _that_ years ago.”

“Nevermind, I just thought you still wanted me,” Theron said lowly, sitting up until Tamlen tightened his grip, pulling Theron down and pressing his lips to his hair.

“Me and half the clan. With your pretty face, how is it that you haven’t had a dozen marriage proposals yet, hmm?” Tamlen’s breath was warm on his ear, and Theron suppressed a shudder. “I’ll be there after supper. One more time can’t hurt.”

Theron nodded, frowning still, then kissed Tamlen lightly on the cheek and closed his eyes, feeling too old for one more time, too old for shirking duties and napping all day, but most of all, too young to say no to either.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Among Dalish clans it is rare that an elf has the luxury of their own, personal aravel. Every new aravel constructed requires a lengthy investment of time and resources as well as a guarantee that the clan will not need to pack up camp in a hurry. Most Keepers are loath to put those under their care in any situation without the possibility of quick escape, so new aravels are constructed rarely, and only when absolutely necessary, the craftsmen’s efforts instead spent on maintaining the existing landships.

The largest aravels hold three to four families at a time, but the lack of privacy this arrangement allows is rarely an issue. By childhood, most Dalish have acclimated to the communal atmosphere of the camps, finding comfort in the tight familial bonds that form within the necessary closeness. True privacy is reserved for young married couples who are allowed small “honeymoon” aravels since procreation is encouraged between members of the dwindling race. In addition, there is often one nursery aravel for the clan’s children so they have a place to sleep and play without bothering the adults.

To anyone familiar with these customs, it would seem unusual that the Sabrae clan allowed one of their hunters to have an aravel to himself, but those in the clan, those who knew Theron, did not even think to question Marethari’s judgment when she announced he would be given the aravel his parents shared before their deaths. It rightfully belonged to him, as his father had been Keeper before Marethari, and though it would have been expected for most elves to relinquish their possessions for the good of the clan, it surprised none of the clan elders when Theron elected to keep it for himself. Though it was large enough for a small family, perhaps with one child, Theron alone slept in it during cold, windy nights, and spent quiet days there in contemplation when allowed to do so.

The night was sticky-warm when Tamlen came after dinner, as he said he would, with ruddy cheeks and a half-drained bottle of young wine in his hand. Theron was opening the windows when he arrived, hanging gauzy panels of thin linen over the open frames. The window ledges were lined with fragrant herbs meant to keep out insects, and from the ceiling hung a half dozen small jars of emerald, gold, and ruby glass. Each of these makeshift lamps held a short beeswax candle, and cast warm colorful light around the small space.

“Do you remember?” Tamlen asked clumsily, thrusting the open bottle at Theron’s chest. “When you were younger and you used to sleep with the halla?” Tamlen’s eyes were bright stars in the dim light of the hanging lamps, and Theron nodded. “We all thought you were the strangest little thing, sleeping out there in the mud with the fawns.” Tamlen pulled off his shirt, tossed it aside onto one of the built-in storage benches, and threw his arm around Theron’s shoulder. He pressed his lips to Theron’s temple and smiled, sweet wine on his breath. When his lips moved from temple to ear and he favored the pale, elongated lobe with an earnest kiss, a rolling shiver traveled down Theron’s body from the base of his skull to the tips of his toes.

Theron took a long pull from the bottle, intoxicating warmth spreading slow from his belly outward, fueling the fire in his blood and the rush of heat to his slowly stiffening cock. Tamlen retrieved the bottle from him and pressed it to his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drained the rest before tossing it absently to the wooden floor of the aravel. Half-drunk and giddy, Tamlen grabbed Theron, shoving his hands up Theron’s linen shirt to pull it over his head, laughing as it tangled in his long red hair.

“You should be naked,” Tamlen said as he fumbled with the laces on his trousers, his fingers misbehaving from the drink and the desperate need to free his hard cock.

“We should be in the bedroom,” Theron countered, taking Tamlen’s hand and leading him a few paces back, behind the dark curtains to where Theron’s bed was set up. Most aravels only had bedrolls that were unrolled at night and stored during the day, but Theron had a straw mattress underneath two stretched out bedrolls, cool cotton sheets lying atop those with several pillows and a quilt completing the artifice. Indented shelves on either side of the bed held glass jars, amber in color, all holding small tallow candles. Tamlen sat on the side of it, cock jutting from his half unlaced trousers, reaching for Theron when he sat beside him.

“I should stay over more often. I forgot how nice you had it in here.” Tamlen thrust his fingers into Theron’s thick hair, raking it back, his nails light on Theron’s scalp, drawing shivers from him with every touch. “Do you want me, lethallin?” Tamlen purred, his drunken movements exaggerated, the hand trailing down Theron’s pale chest a little too firm. 

“Yes,” Theron answered, his voice thick and low. “Always. I’ve always—” The rest of his words were muffled by Tamlen’s mouth pushing hungrily against his, his tongue tasting of wine when it passed between Theron’s lips. Tamlen groped him through his trousers as they kissed, his movements rough, the urgency of it all  leaving Theron gasping. When Tamlen climbed over him, the heat and weight of his body was a taste of unbearable bliss.

Deep into the night, once the moon was high over the camp and fireflies had flashed from their hiding space, Tamlen dressed, heading back to the aravel he shared with several of the young adults and leaving Theron laying alone on damp sheets.

Silence fell after Tamlen left, completing the solitude that Theron normally treasured but now left him feeling uncomfortably alone. As he lay there he stared at the ceiling, his lower body throbbing in a way that should have been nice, like a muscle ache after hard work, but was instead just on the good side of painful. There was a hollow place inside of him, growing sour as the night wore on, turning to tingling, bitter irritation when a mosquito, undeterred by the herbs at the window, lighted on his bare skin and began to feed. He swatted it with a quick hand, wrinkling his nose at the blood smear on his fingers.

He kicked the empty wine bottle as he left his room, nearly tripping on his way to the washbasin. He paused long enough to right it, setting it on one of the built in shelves, before pouring gathered rainwater from the pitcher onto the cloth. Once he was cleaned up he returned to his bed, holding a pillow to his chest as he tried, and failed, to sleep.

In the clearing outside of camp, Anders spent the day exploring the nearby areas. He stayed close to his tent, unsure of when Theron would return with food. He was also careful not to stray too near to the Dalish camp, heeding the warnings about how quickly the hunters would shoot on sight without questioning his motives, not wanting to seem suspicious to people giving him hospitality, no matter how meager it was. There was little to see, however, and after circling his little clearing a few times without finding anything interesting, he returned and laid down, dozing off for a midday nap.

The later the day dragged on, the more uncomfortable the weather became. Anders’ robes were suited for the chilly circle tower, not a humid forest, and by late afternoon, Anders stripped himself down to his smallclothes in a desperate attempt to get some relief from the heat. Had there been some sort of water nearby when he went exploring, a pond or a stream, he would have bathed. Instead he kept to the shade the best he could, sweating and miserable until he thought to conjure a burst of icy air above his head, shivering contentedly when the crystallized humidity fell onto his bare skin like snow.

But despite overcoming the heat, by dusk he was concerned. He had expected Theron, or another elf, to return sometime during the day, if not to bring food and water at least to make sure he was still there and had not run off with their tent and bedroll. Instead he sat near the fire, igniting the burned-out logs with magic, hunger writhing in his gut. He suspected there were plenty of animals in the woods and that with a little ingenuity and a lot of magic he could kill one, but even then he would have no idea how to clean the carcass or cook it.

When he had resigned himself to sleeping without a meal, he dragged the bedroll out of the tent to lay it by the fire, the air still too stuffy to sleep inside the tent. As he laid it out, changing the position once to avoid a patch of large, half buried rocks, he felt the distinct prickle on the back of his neck of someone watching him. He turned, expecting Theron.

Keeper Marethari was approaching him, her hands full, her step deliberate and delicate as she moved through the trees. Anders abandoned the bedroll and stood, bowing politely to her as she neared him.

“I can already tell that you will be a difficult one,” she said when he finished and had straightened again to his full height. “I told you once that feigned politeness will not impress the Dalish.”

“I wasn’t feigning,” Anders said with a shrug. He sat again when she joined him, looking up at her owlish face until she too lowered herself onto the ground.

“I know.” Marethari set down the pack she had been carrying and lifted a waterskin off of her belt. She offered it to him and he took it gratefully. “It is a rare human who carries respect and goodness in his heart. The Dalish are accustomed to assuming that the few we meet do not.”

“I’m not particularly offended by that assumption,” said Anders once he had drunk deeply from the waterskin. “As a mage, you get used to people thinking you’re a horrible person. The staff and robes come with a big sign pointing out your likelihood of becoming an abomination.” He took the pack when Marethari offered it, waiting until she nodded to open it up.

Inside was a pair of worn robes, not as fancy as those he had escaped the tower in, but made of lighter material more suited for the muggy forest. There was also food, flatbread and dried meat of some sort, as well as an apple. His stomach roared, and he sighed in relief.

“I can’t even begin to thank you,” he said. “Not that I would know how, other than just…saying it until you’re sick of hearing my voice.”

“That is part of why I came to speak with you,” Marethari said calmly. “Though I believe that you will be well enough to leave within a day or two, I believe that we can help one another.”

Anders closed the pack and held it in his lap, studying her face curiously. “I can’t think of anything that a Dalish clan would need from me. I can’t hunt, or cook, or make anything. The Circle wasn’t big on arts and crafts and survival training.”

“It is fortunate then that our clan is not in need of any of those things.” Marethari glanced up at the sky above the glade, watching the moon with patient eyes as Anders waited for her to continue. “Since the death of the last Keeper, the clan has not had a proper healer.” She turned to Anders, her eyes bright in the firelight. “Elfroot can only do so much. We nearly lost one of our hunters a few years ago, and it has been to the clan’s detriment to not have a healer among us.”

In his mind’s eye, Anders saw the long, jagged scar behind Theron’s ear, and nodded. “So…you want me to…what, join the clan?”

“Do not be foolish.” Marethari stood, crossing her arms over her chest. “No human, no matter how kind, is given the honor of being considered one of The People. However, you are in need of protection and a place to stay, and we are in need of a mage who is skilled in healing. I believe that there is an arrangement that benefits us both.”

“I thought your clan would shoot me on sight,” Anders said warily.

“They must listen to their keeper, no matter their objections.”

“I—yes. I’m certainly in no position to turn down your kindness.” Anders rose to his feet with some difficulty, the healing knee still bruised and sore. “I will do whatever I can do to help.”

“You will not be welcomed,” Marethari said. “But you will be useful, and in time you will be appreciated for that, at least.”

“Should I take down the tent?”

“Not quite yet. I will send Theron tomorrow morning, and arrangements will be made then.” She inclined her head towards him and began to walk back to the camp. As he fished out the bread and jerky from the pack, she stopped and turned again. “I do not believe that it was chance that brought you to our camp, Anders. We shall hope that it was not the Dread Wolf instead.” With that she left him to the crackling fire, the moon, and the strangeness of the still night.


	7. Chapter 7

Hunger woke Theron, having wormed its way into his gut late in the night. It presented itself as a new sickness, a consuming desire for arms around him, for Tamlen, for a lover to come to him with a mouth of the sweetest honey, to hold him down with the weight of his body, and to whisper his name in secret, familiar tones. This hunger made him restless; it drove him out of bed before dawn, pacing his little landship with the mien of a caged animal, ferocious with desire to escape.

He washed his face with tepid water from the cracked earthen pitcher, but that did not slow the pounding of his pulse. Pushing the curtains aside, then drawing them shut, he returned to bed, peeling off his smallclothes to lie naked on the sheets with the morning breeze playing softly across his bare skin. His cock was hard, and had been for some time. His lower body ached in a way that might have been pleasant had he known an opportunity to satiate his need would soon present itself, but Tamlen had said  _one more time_ , and stumbled out, drunk and pleased, as though Theron were not a clanmate but a whore, plying trade with his body.

But not even that thought cooled the heat in his blood or the drumming in his chest. Shame came, but desire was stronger, and for a brief, delicious moment, he imagined himself crawling into the Aravel with Tamlen, finding comfort and relief in his unbelievably blue eyes.

Instead, he touched himself with eyes closed, sucking in the cool air seeping through the small windows, pretending. He knew his body too well to surprise himself, but he tried anyway, grazing his belly with the tips of his fingers, tracing the furrow where his hip met his leg. He drew a circle around his belly button while he parted his lips for two fingers on his other hand, resting them on his tongue and pushing them inward. It was not the same. But he continued, his mind drifting, pushing his fingers, wet with saliva, into his ass, relaxed and without resistance after having been filled and stretched the previous night. It was never quite what he wanted, what he needed, though the same heady pleasure flowed through him when he found the right spot, the one that caused his toes to curl and made him gasp.

Contorting himself without difficulty—flexibility came naturally for most elves—Theron lay on his back, one leg high in the air to give himself room to insinuate his hand between his buttocks and thrust his fingers inside. There was some relief in that, along with the familiarity of his fantasies, and the rhythmic slide of his hand, drawing back his foreskin to expose the sensitive head of his blood heavy cock to the cool air, then enveloping it with his hand.

It did not take long to bring himself off, and he gulped in the morning air as he lay flat on his back, spread out, his limbs heavy and heat pooling in his belly, that knot of restless desire loosened for now.

As he lay there, coming down from the shuddering high, he rolled his head to the side and happened to see the broken halla horn sitting in one of the small alcoves. His pulse stilled and cock soft, he again trudged into the front of the aravel where he kept the basin and pitcher, wetting the cloth to clean his spending from his stomach and using a sliver of lye soap to wash his hands in the basin. He would need to replace the water later, but his thoughts were elsewhere as he returned to his bed to pick up the chunk of horn.

The horn was white and bone smooth, even where it had broken off, any sharp edges rounded and curved, much as if it had been carved by the camp’s halla keeper. There was no velvet fuzz on it, as Theron often found on the fawns when they were still awkward and gangly, not babies yet not adults, though that did not surprise him. The beautiful beast he’d met in the forest was no adolescent—he would stake all he knew about halla to argue that point, not that he felt it would ever be necessary. Maren might want to see the horn, though he was certain she would regard his story with gentle disbelief. The keeper would know better, but he was uncertain that he wanted to know how she would interpret the meeting. If Ghilan’nain had a plan for him, he wished to discern it for himself.

Three firm raps rang from his door and he nearly dropped the horn, startled.

"A moment, please!" he shouted at whoever was knocking, yanking clean small clothes out of a small chest and tugging them on, sliding his trousers over them. His hair, waist length when undone, was disastrous, but hopefully Merrill would help him comb and braid it later on. He tied it back with a leather thong before opening the door, pushing it outward slowly in case the person outside was standing close.

"You do not often sleep so late, da’len," said Keeper Marethari, her face placid though her eyes were knowing. Behind her the sun poured through the trees, its light incessant gold and warm.

"I did not sleep well," he said. It was a half truth that half satisfied her; his night terrors were well known to the entire clan, and part of why he was allowed his parents aravel, but Marethari’s eyes were inescapably sharp.

"You do not need to explain yourself," she said gently, moving aside as he took the steps out of his landship to stand in the sunlight. “As always you prove yourself too useful for anyone to have reservations about your behavior."

"I’m sorry," he said instinctively, not sure if he was being reprimanded, but feeling as though there was bite unheard behind those words.

"I have made a decision to allow the human you found to join the camp for the time being," she began.

"What?!" The startled note in his voice would have been enough had his eyes not widened greatly, his thin red eyebrows raising high.

"If you will let me finish, da’len." Marethari’s voice allowed no argument, and Theron snapped his mouth shut, nodding firmly. “He is a healer, which we have been lacking since the unfortunate death of your father." She paused while Theron set his jaw. Though she was smaller than Theron, more lithe and bird-boned than anyone else in the camp, her presence was commanding, demanding unshakeable attention. “He will come with us until he finds his way back to his people, unless he makes trouble." Theron nodded, arms at his side, trying not to cross them and appear too defiant or willful. “You are to look after him, da’len."

"But—"

"He is, as he has always been, your responsibility." Marethari took no note of his objection and continued. “You will set up his tent inside the camp proper, near the halla pen where he can be avoided by most of the clan. He will join us for meals, and if he is restless, perhaps you can teach him a useful skill."

"I am no teacher, nor am I a babysitter for shemlen," Theron said carefully. “Nobody will be pleased about this arrangement. He will be met with hostili—"

"You are ever your father’s son, Theron. Your willfulness would have amused him greatly," Marethari said, almost wistfully. “But do not forget who I am, and who you answer to."

"Yes, Keeper." Theron inclined his head towards her politely, holding his tongue. It seemed as though mentions of his family, few and far between as they were, only came when he was being admonished for misbehaving. “Shall I gather him now?"

"I think that would be for the best." Marethari eyed his hair. “Perhaps you should see Merrill first."

"Yes, Keeper."

"See that he is brought to camp while breakfast is still available," she said, then, distracted by the bleating of a halla, followed by the screech of a small child, she turned and left him alone outside of his aravel.  

Merrill was by the fire in the center of camp, pouring thick cornmeal batter from a notched wooden bowl into a large cast iron pan. One of the children, Galene, crouched close to her, watching with rapt attention.

“You don’t want to let it sit for too long,” Merrill said to her. She handed the girl a flat wooden paddle. “Or else it’ll burn. Do you see the bubbles in the middle?” The girl nodded. “That’s when you should flip it. Go on then.”

Galene gingerly pushed the paddle underneath the pancake, loosening it from the pan before attempting to flop it over in one go. It tore in half, and Galene’s face fell tremendously.

“Oh! That’s quite alright!” Merrill smiled and took the paddle from her. With the side of the paddle she sliced it in half, pushing the two halves apart to cook on opposite sides of the pan. “Now we have two,” Merrill said, handing the paddle back to Galene.

Straightening up and brushing off her hands, Merrill inclined her head towards the fire, glancing at Theron out of the corner of her eyes.Theron neared the fire and sat, avoiding both the bowl of batter and Galene, who eyed him with naked suspicion.

“I swear, lethallin, your hair is worse every time I see it.” Merrill padded to Ilen’s aravel, reaching into a chest leaning against the side, digging around until she extracted an ironbark comb. While Galene made misshapen, but unburnt pancakes, Merrill sat on her knees behind Theron, using the small comb to smooth his wild hair.

“Should I braid it?” she asked, and Theron shrugged. “It’s alright if you talk, you know. You’re not going to scare anyone off.”

“I have duties to attend to,” Theron said, casting his gaze away from Galene and to his destination, the clearing just outside of camp. “If you could just put it up, I would appreciate it. Thank you, lethallan.”

“Oh I don’t mind at all. You do have the most beautiful hair.” Merrill gathered up the majority of his long red hair and twisted it until it resembled a silken rope. She then tightly wound that rope around itself until his hair was knotted into a bun, using the leather thong that had been holding it up to secure it. “That should hold for awhile, at least, so long as you don’t go swimming or anything like that.”

Theron stood smoothly, gently cupping Merrill’s cheek while he kissed the other, thanking her again in low tones before politely crouching next to Galene.

“May I take a few of these?” he asked, pointing at the plateful of pancakes. She nodded, green eyes wide as he grabbed a few of them and straightened out to his full height. He tore the corner off of one with his teeth and chewed as he made his way across camp.

“He’s not so bad, you know,” Merrill said, crouching next to Galene again, who was now dumping the last bit of batter into the pan.

“Myron says that he killed somebody,” Galene whispered, searching Merrill’s eyes for the truth. Merrill offered her a thin-lipped smile and closed her eyes, shaking her head.

“Now you nevermind what Myron says. How would he know anyway?” Merrill took the bowl from her. “When you’re finished with those, you need to take them to the others. Everyone is waiting for their breakfast.”

“Merrill—”

“Go on, the Keeper would not like to know the food got cold because of idle gossip. Everyone’s hungry. Shoo.” Picking up the paddle to put it in the bowl so she could take them both to the river to wash them, Merrill wagged a finger at Galene until she nodded and scampered off, carefully balancing the plate between her hands.

Merrill watched the girl go, then turned to face the direction Theron had walked in, spotting him just at the edge of camp. She sighed.

“No,” she murmured to herself as she set off for the river, shaking her head slowly, thinking of Theron’s hand on her cheek, his lips on her cheek, of his soft smiles and quiet voice. With one last glance at Galene, Merrill turned her back on the camp, shaking off the ghost of memories that did not need dredging up.


	8. Chapter 8

Though escaping Kinloch Hold was never something Anders contemplated doing for adventure’s sake alone, the very act of finding a way outside of those well-guarded walls was undeniably exciting. There was also the fact that soon after his first escape he happened upon Bann Ferrenly, and, after a series of events that nobody cared to believe when he tried to tell the story, saved his life.

Rescuing a Bann and being well rewarded for it set a high bar for the relative quality of Anders’ escapes, and so far, stumbling into a Dalish clan was nowhere near that bar. Finding Theron sleeping in the forest, curled up like a child in a clearing, pale and beautiful and strange, was interesting, but trying to get to know him was an exercise in futility, much like attempting to convince Templars that he wasn’t up to no good. The forest was humid and sticky during the day, but cold and insect-ridden at night, and he was beginning to count himself lucky if an elf brought him food once or twice a day.

He thought about leaving, though his navigation abilities were poor at best, and he felt he was more likely to stumble into the camp and get himself shot than actually find a way out of the forest. Though his leg was more or less healed and he would have little trouble walking for a long distance, he still had no idea where he was. For all he knew, just outside of the forest was a Chantry full of Templars just waiting for him to walk onto their doorstep.

But sitting alone in a hastily erected camp was mind numbingly boring. By the third day, he was begrudgingly noting that, even while he was in the cells in the basement of Kinloch Hold, the Templars still allowed him something to read. They tended to be on time with meals too, though he expected that was the influence of the First Enchanter, rather than Templar policy.

While he sat near the dying fire, wondering if literacy was high on the Dalish elves’ priorities, he heard someone moving through the brush behind him. Theron was a familiar sight by now, though always a welcome one. No matter his attitude he was always easy on the eyes, and this time was no exception. He was shirtless, and again wearing low-slung trousers, his hair pinned up and a set expression on his handsome, boyish face. Though that deep, disconcerting scar was the focal point on his neck, Anders avoided it, instead taking note of his freckled shoulders until he realized that Theron was closing in on him.

“Good morning,” Anders said amiably, expecting no response.

“Here, eat these and wait,” Theron said, and thrust his hand towards Anders. He was holding something unfamiliar but easily recognizable as food, and would have even if Theron hadn’t ordered him to eat it. He took the flat little cakes, lifting them to his nose to smell them.

He sat on the stump near the fire, tearing one of the cakes in half to look at the inside, finding that they were made of some sort of cornmeal batter, and losing any suspicion at the buttery smell rising off of them. Anders ate, expecting Theron to shore up his fire and do nothing else, despite what Marethari had told him the previous night. He watched with curiosity as Theron began to take down the tent, excitement at getting a chance to actually go into the camp bubbling in his belly.

“So, can you tell me what I might expect, in camp, I mean?” Anders asked, already having learned in his short acquaintance with Theron that he didn’t want help. He was content to observe, anyway, especially when Theron crouched down, the bare expanse of his freckled, scarred back facing Anders.

“No one will trust you,” Theron said in such a flat tone that Anders thought he was being dryly sarcastic. That thought left Anders’ mind when Theron continued. “Some will be frightened, especially children.” The tent collapsed with a thump and Theron stood up, gathering the hide to lay it out next to the poles. “Do not expect friendly conversation, or to be invited to do anything with the clan.”

“Still sounds better than the Circle,” Anders said with a shrug, finishing one of the cornmeal cakes.

“Does it, then?”

“You didn’t say that I’d be imprisoned if I cast a spell without asking first, or that you’d be watching me every moment of the day to make sure I’m not possessed by a demon. Oh, and the best part is that you didn’t tell me I’d have to do some asinine test to make sure I wasn’t so weak that I’d be possessed the first time I ran into a demon, and threaten me with death or tranquility if I failed.”

Theron paused in the middle of rolling the hide around the tent poles, tilting his head at Anders quizzically. “What do you mean by tranquility?”

“They do something to cut you off from the Fade entirely, no dreams, no emotions, no magic.” Anders felt a pang of envy at the blank, confused look on Theron’s face. “It must be nice to never be threatened with that,” he added, making no attempt to hide his bitterness.

Theron sat back on his heels for a moment, his thin brows furrowed in thought. “That doesn’t seem possible,” he said finally, turning back to his work.

“You’re lucky you can still believe that,” Anders said, then stood and brushed cornmeal off of his hands. “Can I help somehow?”

“You can roll up the bedroll, I guess.” Theron used a strip of hide that had been holding the tent poles together to tie up the bundle. He lifted the tent, wrapped in hide and tied, onto his shoulder and stepped aside, watching Anders silently as he rolled up the thin mat.

Once he had finished and tucked the bundle under his arm, Theron started towards the brush that he had appeared from, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure Anders was following him.

“Watch your leg,” he said, then began to lead.

Anders followed him in silence, figuring the conversation he had gotten from Theron was already more than he should have expected, and not wanting to push his luck. It was more important to try and avoid the protruding roots below the brush, and any snakes that might be down there, disguised as roots.

Though Anders had read about the Dalish elves and their landships while in the circle, nothing could have prepared him for seeing the camp up close. In the books, the aravels had been described as wagons with sails, and in his mind, he had seen ox-driven carts with white canvas stretched across the top--merchant wagons, nothing more. But the great wooden landships were majestic with their red sails fluttering lightly in the soft wind. The semi-circle they formed around the camp was larger than Anders could have imagined; he had thought to cross through the trees to see a group of tents and wagons, but this was a village.

The halla noticed him first, lifting their regal white heads to tilt their snouts into the air, sniffing it hard like hunting dogs, dark eyes darting around the camp until they pinpointed the source of the scent. Every head turned then, even those of the fawns with their fuzzy antlers and mottled backs, and they stared at Anders, sending a strange chill through him as they met his eyes, intelligence burning bright behind the deep blackness.

A woman near the halla pen was tending to one of the smaller ones, using a sharp knife to trim its wild, curling horns, and when the herd alerted to Anders' presence, she immediately followed their gaze. Alarm passed over her face, widening her eyes, dropping her jaw, and she stood out of her crouch, gripping the carving knife more tightly, more like a dagger.

"Theron," Anders said, his tone hesitant. He stopped walking, standing on the very outskirts of the camp, not passing the aravel closest to him, as if it were some sort of barrier.

"I warned you." Theron shifted the tent on his shoulder. "Come closer, make it more obvious you're with me rather than looking like you're stalking me." Anders nodded, and stepped past that imaginary barrier, holding his breath.

A small child with wild eyes and wilder hair was running nearby, cartwheeling and leaping in unadulterated shameless joy. She misjudged the distance of her tumble and landed poorly, collapsing in a heap of knobby elbows and knees, one bare foot pointing into the air. She laughed, turned to see if anyone had seen, and saw Theron and Anders slowly approaching.

The entire camp heard her shriek wavering through the air, dying when she clasped her hands over her mouth and skittered backwards, crablike, away from the men. A nearby woman scooped her up and turned her away from them, glaring.

Hunters surrounded them within seconds, bow strings taut, lips drawn back over teeth, overly pointed incisors flashing. For one tense moment, Theron said nothing, only shifted his burden to the other shoulder, refusing to make eye contact with the other elves.

"Theron..." Anders whispered, his throat dry when he swallowed. Unable to keep his eyes on every arrow pointed at him at once, he closed them tightly instead.

"Do you all honestly think I would bring a shem into camp if I did not have reason?" Theron asked in a tone of voice that was sharper, stronger, and more authoritative than the one Anders was familiar with. He opened his eyes to see the elves staring him down, casting sidelong glances at one another, wary frowns on their angular faces. "Ask the Keeper if you're curious. I am only doing her bidding."

Bows lowered slowly, and the group of hunters began to whisper in what Anders assumed was elvish because he couldn't understand it. The dark glares remained trained on him while they spoke to one another. Theron responded, his tone sharp, eventually shifting his weight to one foot and dropping the tent to the ground, crossing his arms, distinct frustration on his face, distorting the tattoos.

"Theron is correct." Keeper Marethari's voice came from behind the semicircle of hunters, who parted upon hearing it, stuffing arrows back into quivers and holding bows at their sides. They did not relax fully, only held themselves less taut, turning to face the Keeper while still keeping one eye on Anders. “I did not make the decision to bring a human into our midst lightly.”

A hunter with dark hair shaved on the sides stepped forward, his eyes on Theron, not Marethari. “And what is _he_ doing with the human?”

“What I asked him to do,” Marethari answered simply, and the elf snorted.

“We all know the kind of trouble this one gets into with humans.” The hunter sneered, and those to either side of him grabbed his arm and pulled him back, glares fading into uncertain, nervous glances. “How come you didn’t just kill him, like the last one?”

“Cleon, no.” An unfamiliar elf, small and thin like the Keeper with black hair and wide green eyes, grabbed Cleon’s arm roughly. Though she was small, her face was stern and there was depth in her eyes that was easily missed. “It is not your right to question the Keeper! Theron has done nothing wrong.”

“Thank you, Merrill,” Theron said, his voice again dipping into the low, soft place that was familiar to Anders. “But that isn’t necessary.”

“Lethallin,” she said softly, her brows knitted.

“I would like to speak with you, Cleon,” said Marethari, a hard edge to her voice as she approached him. He stepped back again, his mouth opening then closing, like a fish.

“Of course, Keeper,” he said finally, quickly looking to those on either side of him as if he wanted help, but the others were starting to drift away, going back to whatever they had been doing when the disturbance began.

Turning away from the group, Theron again lifted the tent onto his shoulder. He glanced at Anders, who was still standing behind him, clutching the bedroll like a shield, and inclined his head towards the halla pen.

They walked in silence until reaching a clearing to the side of the pen, a bit further back than any of the aravels, but still clearly a part of the camp. Theron tossed the rolled up tent onto the ground and crouched, paying no attention to either the other elves or the great deer standing just inside the pen, stretching out its long neck to sniff at him.

“That was...awkward,” Anders said as Theron pitched the tent, glancing around at the camp, realizing a few small children were standing behind a nearby aravel, peering at him with wide, curious eyes. Theron grunted. “Does that happen often?”

“You’ll find out, won’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I will.” Anders passed Theron to stand near the halla pen, looking at the huge deer. “I read about halla before,” he said, proffering his hand to one of the beasts, drawing it back when it took a few steps backwards, huffing air through its nose at him. “They’re not particularly friendly to strangers, are they?” he asked, and Theron, midway through pitching the tent, sat back on his heels and peered up at him and the halla.

“You need to know how to talk to them,” he said and stood, nearing the pen and saying a few words in elvish. The halla shifted its attention from Anders to Theron, and walked forward slowly. Theron extended his arm into the pen, and once the deer was close enough, it pressed its nose into his palm, sticking out a thick pink tongue to lick it. “They are good judges of character.”

“Aren’t they just big deer?” Anders asked, nearing the pen and slowly offering his hand to the halla who was still snuffling at Theron’s palm. As if it were affronted the halla reared its head high and trotted off, snorting gutturally in Anders’ direction.

“And dragons are just overgrown lizards,” Theron said and rolled his eyes. “Now help or get out of my way, and stop bothering the halla before Maren finds you poking at them.”

Opening his mouth to protest at Theron’s characterization of his behavior, Anders paused, watching him start his work on the tent again. “You’re sure you want my help?” he asked.

“Would I have asked for it if I did not?” Theron asked without looking at him. “Hold this, would you?”

Anders set the bedroll on the ground and crouched next to Theron, holding the pole in place while Theron used thick twine to tie it down. He was close enough now to count the freckles, if he wanted to, and to trace the line of that ugly scar up Theron’s neck and behind his ear, noting where hair had stopped growing on his scalp around the scar tissue. He cocked his head, examining the jagged ropey scar, wondering what sort of blade had made it.

“Back off!” Theron said sharply, and Anders immediately jerked backwards, a blush rising on his cheeks as he watched Theron’s ears turn red.

“Sorry I was--”

“The scar, I know,” Theron muttered, busying himself with a tent post.

“That elf, the one who said you killed someone,” Anders began, wishing he’d bit his tongue when Theron froze up, shoulders tense. “That’s how you got it, isn’t it?”

“Clever of you. Do you have nothing better to do than worry about me?” Theron asked, his jaw set when he turned again to Anders, cheeks and ears flushed pink.

“No I--”

“Then put up your own damn tent!” In a liquid motion, Theron was on his feet, leaving Anders with a half-pitched tent and a flood of embarrassment at his inability to keep his mouth shut. He watched him leave, taking long strides despite his height, passing the elf called Merrill though she reached for him. WIth a sigh and a groan, Anders dropped his head into his hands, wishing that, behind the curiosity and sympathy, he didn’t feel like stroking his fingers down the line of that scar until Theron shuddered under his touch.


	9. Chapter 9

Anders was being watched.

The feeling began as soon as he entered camp, intensifying when Theron stormed off to disappear into the thick woods past the landships. He did what he could to ignore it, knowing from his brief interactions with Theron that it was best to avoid confrontation with the hostile elves, but by the time his tent was haphazardly pitched, the oppressive sensation of eyes trained on his back was too strong to ignore.

Though his tent still listed to one side despite having been erected on completely level ground, Anders rose up from his knees to dust off his hands. His pulse sped, driven by the unmistakable sensation of being watched, and once he sucked in a deep breath to hold while he set his jaw, he turned to meet the one observing him.

Anders saw no one.

The hunters who previously surrounded him were gone, and from what he could see, the elves had returned to their occupations without giving him a second thought. Were it not for the landships and the ring of massive trees surrounding them, he could have mistaken the camp for a village center. Three women sat in a semicircle upon log benches, fabric draped over their knees, deft hands working small needles and thread. He could not hear them, but he saw their lips moving, saw laughter on their tattooed faces, saw them glance knowingly over their shoulders at children playing nearby. Some distance from the women, by wooden racks holding fat silver fish by their tails, a man scraped fur from a large hide with some sort of knife. To his left, a man hefted an enormous cleaver to halve a large piece of meat. All around him the camp bustled with life and industry, and as far as Anders could tell, not a single elf was looking at him.

He turned to face the halla again, but their long necks were bent, muzzles twitching while they grazed. He examined their horns, wishing he was close enough to give into the urge to run his fingers over the smooth curves, to weigh the antler in his hand. They raised and lowered their heads with grace, appearing unhindered by the massive horns. Like the elves, the halla paid no attention to him, losing interest in grazing when the woman who had been tending them earlier approached the far side of the pen. All of the halla except one sleeping fawn trotted over to meet the elf.

There was a soft thud. Anders turned his attention from the halla to see that his tent had fallen backwards, and was now piled in an unruly heap on the grass. He sighed as he crouched again, trying to remember how he had gotten it to stand in the first place.

Before he even had the chance to separate the poles from the hide, he heard a scuffling noise behind him. Already on edge, he spun on his heels to glare at the space behind him, ready to shout at whoever was back there despite the insanity of starting a fight as the only human in a forest full of elves.

This time, from around the corner of one of the aravels, he saw a small face peering at him. Tension and anger dissipated in a rush when he met the child’s eyes. He offered a careful smile. She ducked silently behind the landship.

“You can come out,” he said, sitting down next to his collapsed tent. “I won’t hurt you.”

Slowly, warily, the girl leaned far enough for him to see her. She had a sweet face, dominated by huge green eyes, and if it wasn’t for her ears and slight frame she would have looked just like one of the apprentices at Kinloch Hold, young and shy, frightened but fascinated.

“Hey there,” he said quietly. “My name’s Anders. What’s yours?”

She continued to stare at him like a wary animal, worrying the ragged trim of her skirt between her hands.

“Am I the first human you’ve ever seen?” he asked, smiling gently when she nodded. “No wonder you’re shy. I would be too if you were the first Dalish elf I’d ever seen.” The girl lifted her hand to her mouth and nibbled at her thumb. "I bet your mum doesn't want you talking to me. You ought to go back to her before you get in trouble."

"Her mother is no longer with us." The woman who spoke was so close to him that he started upon hearing her, having thought he was alone with the curious child. He faced the woman, recognizing her as the one who jumped to Theron's defense when he brought him to camp. Her eyes were the same forest green as the little girl's, but her accent was different from that of Theron and Marethari.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Anders rose, and offered his hand to the elf. She did not take it, though she eyed his hand curiously as she passed him to crouch beside the small Dalish girl.

"Hanna, did you want to say hello to the shemlen?" she asked the girl. "The Keeper says he's going to stay with us, so he's a good shemlen. She wouldn't ask him to stay if he wasn't." The girl nodded, still keeping her eyes focused on Anders' face.

The elf brought the girl to stand nearer to him, though still keeping careful distance between her and Anders. "My name is Merrill," said the woman. "And this is Hanna."

"Hello Hanna," Anders said, and wiggled his fingers at her, unable to resist the temptation of conjuring a swarm of illusory butterflies. Hanna's eyes lit, and her little mouth dropped open, exposing a few gaps between uneven teeth. She reached for one of the butterflies, letting out a squeal of delight when it disappeared after slipping through her fingers. She ran off then, towards the stream, driven by whatever preternatural force guides small children, and from where he still sat, Anders looked up at Merrill.

"You're not very good at putting up tents, are you?" Merrill eyed the heap of leather and wood. Anders laughed with helpless resignation, covering his face with his hands.

"You've no bloody idea."

"It's a pity we don't have a spare aravel. It's going to get very cold soon and you will be miserable out here when it starts to rain."

"Given the alternative, I'd rather sleep under a wet tent in the freezing cold," Anders said with a frown.

"Are human cities that bad? I've heard terrible stories, but I've never been to one myself." Merrill righted his tent swiftly as he spoke, giving him quick glances to acknowledge his words.

"I wouldn't really know.” Anders stayed where he was, knowing he’d do more harm than good if he attempted to help. “I’ve been a prisoner at the Circle of Magi since I was twelve. The only time I ever see a city is when some Templar is dragging me through it in irons.”

“Marethari has told me that human mages are treated poorly, but I thought she was exaggerating. She tends to do that, you know--don’t tell her I said that, please. I don’t want her to be cross with me.”

“You have my word,” Anders said, smiling despite himself. “I’d rather not get on anyone else’s bad side.”

“Whose bad side have you gotten on?” Merrill straightened out and brushed dust off of her hands, glancing over the tent with a critical eye. “You haven’t been in camp all that long, and Hanna seemed to like you.”

“Ah, thank you.” Standing, Anders took a step away from the tent, trusting her handiwork but not his lack of grace. “The hunter who found me, Theron, I seem to have touched a nerve.”

“Ahh.” Merrill passed Anders and leaned against the fence around the halla pen. Anders joined her with caution, eyeing the halla that was slowly walking across the pen. “Theron is...he is very special.” Pausing, she reached out to stroke the nose of the halla approaching them, smiling when it stuffed its nose into her palm, sniffing for food. “He has had a different life than some of us, perhaps it has been a more difficult one. I don’t think it’s up to me to tell his story for him.” When the halla dipped its head, she scratched it behind the ear. “He is not a bad person, I think he’s a very good person, actually. He wouldn’t have brought you here, otherwise. It’s just--he feels things very strongly and...and I think that sometimes he feels very alone.”

“In the middle of camp?” Anders asked.

 “You said you were kept prisoner. Were there others?”

“At Kinloch Hold? Hundreds. I don’t know the exact number, but between mages, Templars, and Tranquil, there were a lot of people there.”

“And were you ever lonely?” Merrill asked, continuing after he nodded. “I think it is very much the same for Theron. At least, it has always been that way for me. I’m not from Ferelden, and even when you grow up with the clan, it is easy to feel like an outsider. Come with me.” Merrill began to walk towards the large aravel on the opposite side of camp, slowing until he joined her at her side. “I think we should get you some other clothes, and perhaps another blanket.”

“Thank you. Is there anything I can do to help, around camp, I mean?” Anders asked, pausing, having noticed Hanna chasing butterflies on the edge of the forest. He smiled through the sharp pain of nostalgia blooming in his chest, reminding himself unwittingly of playing games on the Fereldan countryside with neighbor children. He could remember all the words to the old songs, all the rules to made-up games, and all the names of the children from nearby farms. He looked at his feet, only then realizing Merrill had called after him.

“You’re going to give people a fright, drifting off like that,” she scolded. “As I was saying, there isn’t much you’ll be able to help with right now. If someone is injured, you can heal them, but no one has been hurt for some time. Do you know how to cook?” Merrill opened the door on the side of the aravel and took the steps into it.

“They didn’t let mages play with fire and knives,” Anders said with a sardonic smile, standing on his toes to peer into the aravel, but standing well back.

“Oh. Well. We do a lot of things with fire and knives.” Merrill’s voice echoed from within. “Perhaps someone can teach you how to use the latter.”

"But not fire?"

"You are a mage, aren't you?" Merrill appeared again in the aravel's doorway, carrying a folded blanket. "If you don't know how to make a fire, perhaps the Keeper could show you. Why would your people not teach you though?"

Anders took the blanket when she offered it, finding it threadbare yet still nicer than anything he'd had at the Circle. "They're too busy locking us up for our own good to see that it might be useful for us to know how to best use our Maker-given gifts. I can set a fire just fine though--I was teasing you."

"Oh!" Merrill's cheeks went pink and she pressed her fists against her hips. "That wasn't very nice of you!"

"I'm sorry." Anders smiled as Merrill retreated into the aravel. "What's it like inside there?" he called after her.

"It's very nice. The ceilings are a bit low, but aravels are made by master craftsmen, and can hold up to wind and rain." When she returned this time, she held a few folded tunics and pairs of trousers. "I'm not entirely sure these will fit you, but I don't suppose you have a lot of clothes as it is. You'll have to ask the Keeper for anything else, but this should keep you a little more comfortable."

"Thank you." He gave her a genuine smile as he hugged the blanket and clothing to his chest. "The initial hostility of the clan worried me," he admitted. "I didn't think anyone would talk to me, much less try and make me comfortable."

"Our ways are our ways," Merrill said with a pensive glance at the sky. "We are the last of our people, and we must be careful that we do not lose that. But I believe you mean no harm," she added, turning to him. "And everyone deserves to be free."

"That's all I've ever said." He looked out at the sewing women, still busy, still keeping an eye on their children, and most of all, still laughing. "Can you do me a small favor?" Merrill nodded. "When you see Theron, let him know I didn't mean to open old wounds."

"I can try, but it would be better if you spoke to him yourself. I'm sure he'll forgive you in time." A cacophony grew from the upper corner of camp, the voices of children mixed with frantic crowing. Merrill winced and took off towards the noise, shouting elvish names loudly while Anders stood silently, still holding the borrowed linens, looking for an end to the forest, and only finding an exciting spark of realization. He was lost in the midst of a dense forest, in the midst of a Dalish clan, no more allowed to wander off than he had been in the Circle, and yet he was free.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

The rabbit laid limp on the bloodstained wooden slab, atop the innumerable dents and deep gouges that marked the table's purpose as a butcher's block. A single neat puncture wound through the animal's chest, washed clean of blood, was the only indication that the rabbit had been killed by one of the clan's skilled hunters. Anders, despite having eaten rabbit a multitude of times, struggled to keep a straight face while staring at the animal, his breakfast sitting heavy in his roiling gut.

"Have you ever skinned an animal before?" Theron asked, holding a thin knife with a long, pointed blade loose in one hand.

"You must be joking."

Theron set his jaw, narrowing his eyes at Anders, who would step no closer to the table despite not having drawn near enough to touch the edge. He placed the knife next to a cleaver on the table and set his hands on his hips, managing to affect an aura of intimidation despite his small frame and pretty face. Although cowed, Anders had to press his lips firmly together to keep from laughing--it was like being scolded by one of the cute young maids in the Circle's kitchens, not that he would have said that directly to Theron's face, of course.

"I told Merrill--"

"You spoke to Merrill?" Theron asked with a furrow of his brow. Behind him, a group of children ran, joyous and feral, one of them making a face at Anders while pressing her ears firmly to the sides of her head.

"She put up my tent and got me some extra clothes," Anders replied. Theron, either not noticing the children or ignoring them, seemed satisfied. "I told her that the Circle was not keen on letting us near knives."

"Why?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"There is no real reason to keep you away from knives when you could just set them on fire if you wanted to harm them."

Anders opened his mouth to reply, then paused, raising his brows before nodding in acknowledgement. The group of children were nearing them, passing between them what looked like a crude ball fashioned from canvas. As Anders watched, one of the larger children, a tall boy with skinned elbows, whipped the ball at a small girl across from him. He overestimated her height, and the ball soared over her head, towards Anders and Theron. The group froze when the ball smacked Theron between the shoulder blades. He started, growled something foreign under his breath, and turned. In one motion, the children stepped back, heads hung.

"Who threw that?" Theron asked. He didn't sound angry, but Anders could see the tension in his jaw had not dissipated.

"It was me. I'm sorry. It was an accident." To the wide-eyed amazement of the others, the tall boy stepped forward, staring at his feet. Theron crouched and picked up the ball.

"Be more careful," he said, and tossed the ball back. A half dozen heads nodded in unison, and the children scattered. Theron sighed and straightened out, staring at the dead rabbit and the knives next to it. He picked up the cleaver. "The first thing you have to do is remove the head and feet," he began, and Anders felt his breakfast betray him. By the time the cleaver came down with a solid thunk, Anders had stumbled off to retch in the weeds.

Theron squeezed his eyes closed and sighed slowly through his nose, retreating briefly into the black quiet in the back of his mind, blocking out the yelping giggles of the children. When he opened his eyes, his hands were bloody, and with forced calm, he dressed the rabbit with meticulous care.

"I just saw your pet shemlen running off." Theron looked up from his work to see Tamlen leaning over the table, the sun favoring his handsome face, shining in his sky-blue eyes.

"He's not my pet," Theron said wearily.

"He certainly follows you like a trained hound." Tamlen laughed and pushed himself off of the butcher's block to avoid getting his hands dirty. "Are you going to take him hunting next? Maybe show him to use a bow and arrow?"

"Tamlen..."

"I'm teasing you, lethallin. You've always been so serious. You should laugh now and then." Tamlen came around the table to drape his arm over Theron's shoulder. "It  _is_  strange though. Can you ever remember a shem in our camp before?" Theron threw him a dark glance. "A  _live one_  I mean," Tamlen said, correcting himself. Theron twisted his shoulder to throw Tamlen off, then stabbed the thin filet knife into the table so that it stood with its tip buried into the wood.

"I do not laugh because  _this is not funny_." Theron wiped his hands on a dirty rag that did little to remove the blood. "She was a child and I was a monster. You tell me it was in the past, that it was nothing, but it marked me." Theron shoved his hand into his hair to pull it back over his right ear. "If it was nothing, what's that?"

"Lethallin," Tamlen said gently. "I didn't mean to upset you." With a careful hand he brushed Theron's hair down, smoothing it over the thick scar. "You're not a monster, and you don't need to punish yourself for an accident."

"Nobody else will," Theron murmured. "Unless you're going to finish with the rabbit, leave me alone." Theron deflated, a weary tone in his voice as he looked away from Tamlen, into the forest where Anders had ran off.

"I'll finish it. Why don't you take yo--the shemlen berry picking. I'm sure even he can do children's work. You know the meat isn't going to be usable." Tamlen frowned, flipping the carcass over. "You waited too long to clean it."

"I just meant to show Anders how to clean it. But if you skin it, I can use the fur." With Tamlen tending to the rabbit, Theron started towards the edge of camp. He stopped at the food stores, gathering two long canvas slings over his shoulder. He found Anders sitting on the bank of the nearby stream, his face pale and sweaty. Theron came to him slowly, placing his feet with deliberate weight, bringing his heel down on a dry twig so it snapped. Anders glanced up at Theron, then back to the slowly flowing water.

"I was going to come back."

"I was confident of that," said Theron, and leaned forward to wash the blood off his hands. It darkened the water for only a moment, and when he stepped back onto the bank, no trace remained.

"You know, that's the first time anyone ever said they had confidence in me?" With a bitter laugh, Anders dipped his hands into the stream to splash cold water onto his face. He then held his face in his hands, his back rising and falling in a long silent sigh. "If you trusted me, why did you come to take me back?"

Theron lowered himself onto the sandy soil and dipped his bare feet into the lazy stream. Above them, a crow gamboled along the low-hanging branch of an old maple tree. It squawked with the indignant pride ingrained in the breed, before settling between them in a flurry of silky black wings. It hopped once towards Theron, staring at him sideways, its head cocked to left in naked interest.

"I came to show you how to find ripe berries. I believe that it will be more appropriate for you than dressing meat." At Theron's words, the crow let out an excited caw, hopping up and into his lap. He pointedly ignored the bird, though on his narrow legs it looked enormous.

"Is that your bird?" Anders asked, curiosity overriding the remains of nausea that kept him still on the bank, not trusting his stomach enough to walk.

"It's  _a_  bird," Theron replied, finally giving in to the crow's repeated nudging of his hand to scratch the top of its head with one gentle finger. "It's not unusual for animals to do this, though I'm not sure why."

"Some Dalish affinity for the wild?" Anders offered.

Theron shook his head. The crow made a small, odd chittering noise and playfully nipped at Theron's finger. "Not the Dalish," he said, "just me."

"I can see why." When Theron furrowed his brow, Anders continued. "When you're away from your clan, even when you seem angry, you have a sort of serenity around you." Furious heat flared on Theron's ears, flushing them to pansy pink as he flattened them. He turned his attention fully to the bird, still using only one finger to scratch it gently. It tilted its head far back so he could rub its chin and cawed in delight. "Maybe animals can sense that."

"Serene is not a word I would use to describe myself."

"I'm not sure that matters. I certainly wouldn't call myself obedient, but here I am."

"The clan would kill you otherwise." The crow clacked its beak and hopped to Theron's shoulder, buffeting him with a wing as it gripped his shoulder and settled in.

"Doesn't mean I'm not staying here out of my own free will." Theron chuckled, his ears perking back up until the crow nipped one of them and he turned to curse at it in Dalish. "Maybe the animals just like you because you talk to them," Anders suggested. "Cats certainly do."

Theron got to his feet, the crow on his shoulder unperturbed by his movements though he attempted to shake it off. "I told it to leave. That shouldn't endear anything to me." Once on his feet, Theron offered Anders one of the canvas slings. "A short ways from here there is a small grove of blackberries and raspberries. We're going to go pick some."

"With your crow?" Theron shrugged violently, and the crow dug its talons further into his cotton shirt.

"Seems so."

Theron led him through the thick woods, picking his way as carefully as a deer. Even with the bird clutching to his shoulder, occasionally chattering, nudging its head amorously against his neck, he was unhindered by undergrowth and mud, both of which caught Anders long enough for him to need to call after Theron to stop. Theron was patient, but in an exasperated fashion, tapping his bare feet while he waited, arms crossed, his crow bobbing its head in sharp, excited jerks. After some time--more than it would have taken him on his own--he and Anders approached a brambly stand of shrubs, all bearing jewel-like spots of burgundy and black. The thick scent of overripe fruit hung around the tangled bushes, and with a triumphant squawk the crow lifted off from Theron's shoulder and plunged into the nearest bush.

"I had no idea they ate fruit," Anders said as he watched the crow hopping through the brambles, devouring berries from the lowest branches. 

"They eat anything they want." Beckoning Anders, Theron stepped up to a branch laden with fat berries. "If they burst in your hands, they're too ripe, just throw them away. If they're hard--"

"I've had blackberries before," Anders said as he gathered a small handful and tossed it into the sling. "I'm pretty sure I can do this without step-by-step instructions."

"You couldn't pitch a tent. I just assumed."

With a sigh, Anders turned to argue with him, but stopped, mouth open, when he saw the slight smile on Theron's face. "You're teasing me," he said, incredulous. "Here I thought you didn't like me."

"I would not think too highly of yourself just because I tolerate your presence." Theron inclined his head towards the crow. "I at least appreciate that you listen and you haven't tried to bite me."

"Is that a problem you have often, people trying to bite you?" Theron made a noncommittal noise in response and focused his attention on slipping his long fingers around the thorns to pluck and palm fat blackberries, placing them in the sling when his hand was full. A calm settled over the thicket as they gathered berries, and they continued in companionable silence until the slings and the crow were full. 


	11. Chapter 11

From her place at the elevated center of camp, Keeper Marethari watched as Theron and Anders returned together, lugging heavy loads of ripe blackberries. Theron's stride was long for his height, as though he was trying to keep distance between himself and the mage, but Anders kept on his heels, smiling patiently as he followed.

Without acknowledging the Keeper or the curious glances from the clutch of sewing women, Theron led Anders silently to the food stores. Following in comfortable obedience, Anders stopped to crouch and smile at little Hanna when she broke away from the shambling mass of children circling the aravels to run to him. He laid the canvas sling on the ground to show her his impressive haul, waiting for a small nod from Theron before letting her stuff her chubby hands into the berries and fish out black, juicy fistfuls. She smashed them into her face more than she ate them, blackening her teeth, lips, and--inexplicably--her forehead.

Without thinking, Anders tucked his hands under Hanna's underarms and lifted the small girl up. "We're going to need to get you cleaned up," he said, smiling as Hanna's little ears twitched while she stuffed half of her hand into her mouth.

"Put her down right now," Theron said softly from Anders' side. Anders glanced from Hanna's cherubic face to Theron, then to the women who had stopped sewing and were now glaring daggers in his direction. Reluctantly, he passed Hanna to Theron. A brief look of horror flashed over Theron's face as he awkwardly supported her, grimacing when she whined and shoved her face against his shoulder, smearing blackberry pulp onto his shirt.

"I wasn't going to hurt her." Anders, his expression sour, picked up the sling of berries to follow Theron, Hanna now clinging to his neck, to the food stores.

"I believe you." Theron bent at his waist in attempt to set Hanna onto the ground, helplessly looking to Anders when she wouldn't let go.

"You're the one who told me to put her down," he said, making no attempts to hide the amusement in his voice.

"So nobody thought you were trying to kidnap her!"

"She seems very safe where she is now."

With an exasperated huff, Theron turned from Anders and continued to the stacked barrels and crates where the clan stored dried goods and salted meat. Hanna continued to whine in a broken mix of Elvish and common tongue. Anders was able to pick out the word "sleepy," but little else.

"Where are her parents?" Anders asked.

"We lost her mother to disease a year ago. Her father we lost to shemlen." Theron crouched to place Hanna on a crate, giving her a small handful of blackberries to busy herself. He then lifted the lid to a barrel and peered inside.

"You mean humans killed her father?" Anders asked, lowering his voice so Hanna wouldn't hear. Theron emptied his sling into the barrel and Anders followed suit, glancing at the sleepy child as she pushed berries into her mouth.

"Perhaps that would have been kinder." Theron closed the barrel and laid his sling atop of it. One of the women, finished with her sewing, came to them to say a few words to Theron in elvish before picking Hanna up and carrying her over to the others. Theron watched her quietly. "Her father left us to join a human city, perhaps because we could not save his wife, perhaps it is what he wanted all along."

"And he just left her? Why?"

Theron shrugged. "I don't know why anyone does what they do," he said with a light sigh while gazing at the darkening sky.

Anders frowned, but before he could continue to question him, another elf, this one male, with wheat-blond hair and dark blue eyes, joined them.

"There you are lethallin," he said to Theron and handed him scrap of fur. "It's not much. I don't know what you plan to do with so little."

Theron took it from him and flipped it over in his hands, examining the skin and running his fingers through the soft, brown fur. "I'll tan the leather and use it to make gloves. I have a few other pieces, and this should be enough." Theron glanced from Anders to the elf and wrinkled his nose. "Tamlen, this is Anders, as I'm sure you already know."

"Are you accusing me of gossip, cousin?" Tamlen smiled good-naturedly at Theron before turning his bright eyes on Anders. "The Keeper says you're a healer, you must be an awfully good one for her to let you stay with us."

"You shouldn't question the Keeper's judgment," Theron muttered.

"No harm done, I'm sure," Anders said with a smile, happy to be addressed, rather than just stared at, even if it was with suspicion. "In the Circle of Magi, my instructors told me that I was the best healer they'd seen in decades. Give me an ailment or injury magic can treat and I'll fix it." Anders adjusted his stance, tilting his nose proudly upwards.

"Really?" Tamlen sounded dubious. "So what are you doing here if you're so great?"

"Being free," Anders replied with a snort. "The Circle is a prison. They could treat me like I was the second bloody coming of the Maker and I wouldn't want to stay there." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Theron stand, glumly looking over the blackberry stains on his shirt.

"You're not free," Tamlen said with a strange smile. "You're a guest in a Dalish camp, but the moment you step out of line--"

Theron interrupted him, spitting a word in Elvish that got him to completely turn his attention away from Anders.

"Lethallin," Tamlen said, his tone cautious.

"Leave it." Shaking his head, Theron passed between them, heading in the direction of his aravel.

"The moment I step out of line, what?" asked Anders, as if he hadn't noticed Theron storming off.

"We leave you to the wolves," Tamlen answered, offering him a small shrug. "Not likely that will happen, though. The Keeper wants you here, and she has the last word."

"Why try to intimidate me, then?"

"I gotta have some fun, right?" Tamlen grinned wolfishly. "Don't take it personal."

Anders rolled his eyes, able to see, even from across the camp, that Theron had closed himself into his aravel. "Right. How about that?" he asked, tilting his head to where Theron had disappeared to. "Do I take _that_ personally?"

Tamlen raised a brow. "What? That he left? You're going to be disappointed if you were hoping to strike up a friendship with Theron. Last shem he met tried to kill him. I can't imagine he cares for your kind at all."

"He brought me here," Anders said. "He could have just as easily shot me and left me to die in the forest, but here I am--free," he added with a grin.

Tamlen narrowed his eyes at Anders briefly before walking off.

\----

The Dalish ate more communally than Anders was accustomed to. Though all the apprentices and harrowed mages sat together at long, wooden tables, Enchanters and Templars ate elsewhere. Tranquil ate in the kitchen with the servants, meaning mealtimes were scattered all about the tower. But in the Dalish camp, everyone from the Keeper to the children sat in a loose semicircle around the fire, some on benches, some on the ground, all eating with their fingers from battered, mismatched plates. Near to Keeper Marethari there were a few elves that looked older than the rest, gray-haired with wizened faces. They spoke together in Elvish, in low tones, and since Anders knew the other elves could hear them, he suspected their secrecy was for his benefit.

Other than the elders, there seemed to be no real rhyme or reason to where the elves sat. Children sat mixed with adults, adults with youngsters, hunters with seamstresses and craftsmen. Anders only guessed at the occupations of half the elves, having been in camp only just long enough for them to allow him to move about without Theron at his side. He was sure some were small family groups; there was definite resemblance between some of the children and the adult they sat with, but others, like Hanna, he suspected just sat wherever the felt most comfortable. Hanna had tried to sit with him, but was ushered off by a woman with a severe face and gold hair, so he sat alone, close enough to take bowls when they were passed, but not close enough to look as though he were with any of the groups. It was an arrangement that seemed to suit everyone just fine.

The food that night was roasted venison, which Anders recalled having only once before being taken to the circle, when a neighboring farm owner had hunted down an enormous buck and offered meat to everyone he could find. He remembered it as tough and gamey, but the meat on his plate was succulent and moist, covered with a thick brown gravy that was good enough to be eaten alone with bread. There were also salted potatoes and dandelion greens, along with a compote made from the blackberries he had gathered with Theron. The excitement from the children upon receiving small bowls of warm berries gave him a hint at how special something like dessert would be for them. The Circle often had pie, mincemeat, mostly, and he found himself wondering what the little ones would do if faced with a pie.

It was only when dessert was being passed around that he noticed Theron had gotten up and walked to the halla pen, where he was stroking the nose of one of the beasts that had come to the edge of the pen to meet him. Politely declining the bowl of compote, Anders lifted himself to his feet and joined Theron, stopping midway to swat at the mosquito attempting to feast on his neck.

"Your friend threatened me," he said as he came to stand beside him, looking down into his wide eyes, his interest momentarily captured by the way they reflected the dim moonlight, making them flash yellow like a cat.

"Tamlen?"

"Uh-huh. He said that if I stepped out of line, I'd be left to the wolves."

Theron turned back to the halla and shrugged. "He has no control over what happens to you. I would not pay him any mind."

"But why threaten me, then?"

Theron eyed him with waning patience. "I don't understand why you ask me what others think, why they do what they do. I have never known."

"Sorry," Anders said, frowning at the halla as they now seemed agitated, sniffing the air and stamping their feet. "I just want to understand this better so I don't get on anyone's bad side." Theron tilted his head up to the sky, his skin pale under the moonlight, shining where it was exposed on his and in the lines between his tattoos. "I want to make sure people are comfortable around me," he added.

"They will be, or they won't be." Theron closed his eyes. "Hanna seems to like you. She has no family, so perhaps once the others are less wary of you, you may watch over her, if you wish."

"I would like that," Anders said, glancing back to the fire to see Hanna sitting with the other children, dozing on one of the girl's shoulders. "But a friend would be nice."

Theron snorted, and one of the halla mimicked him." You mean me, don't you? Haven't you figured it out yet? Half of them are just as frightened _for_ you as they are _of_ you."

"Because you killed a human. The one who tried to cut off your ear?"

"No." Theron frowned. "That would have been justified."

As it was clear from Anders' limited experience that Theron would not continue and pressing him would only cause him to withdraw more, he let the subject drop, instead turning his attention to the halla. He held out a hand silently, waiting as one of them lumbered close enough to give it a sniff and and lick, eyeing him expectantly.

"He thinks you're trying to give him a treat," said Theron, and gently tapped his arm. Anders looked to find him offering a crabapple, and took it to give to the halla, who didn't bother to even glance at it before plucking it from his hand with soft, fuzzy lips, and trotting back into the center of the pen, crunching loudly.

"The other elf, Tamlen, he called you 'lethallin'," Anders said carefully, watching Theron raise a brow at his pronunciation. "What does that mean?"

Theron thought for a minute, his fine brow furrowed. "It is affectionate," he said finally. "But in the familial sense. I think an accurate translation would be 'clanmate', but I think that misses some of the sentiment."

"So, it's sort of like if you have a friend so close that you might consider them family?"

"Somewhat," Theron agreed, "but there are some things that we only say in Elvish, so we can keep the words alive. Not all are important; what is important is that we remember them. Humans have taken much from us, and we keep what we can." His voice was weary when he lowered his head, turning from the pen and leaning his back against it. Beside him, Anders was silent, with his head inclined towards the sky. A light, no bigger than the smallest star, streaked across the blackness, and Anders smiled at its fading trail.

"I think one day, you will call me your friend," he said to Theron, meeting his shining, amused eyes.

"Knowing what others think must be such a useful skill," Theron teased, pushing himself off the fence and towards his aravel, leaving Anders alone with the halla. The big one, the one he'd fed the crabapple to, came up behind him to nuzzle at his arm, nudging at it like a horse. He turned to show it his empty hands.

"Sorry, friend," Anders said softly to the deer. "You ate the only one I had." The halla sniffed at his hands anyway, licking his fingers, and letting out a disappointed huff before shuffling back towards the others. Anders watched as the halla sidled up to another, rubbing its nose against the others neck, and settled down next to it, curling together despite the humid heat.

That night, in his tent near the pen, Anders dreamed of halla as big as trees, majestic and white as snow, and of standing with Theron, their hands clasped as they watched them frolic together under a sky full of shooting stars.


	12. Chapter 12

Time never flew like this in the Circle. There, the days were endless, and melted together into an incomprehensible mash of identical hours. Nights were much the same, except their eternity was littered with quiet sobbing and the sound of clanking plate-mail echoing off stone walls in the hallways. One year, Anders had missed his name day by two weeks, only realizing it had gone by when he checked a calendar after hearing an apprentice talking about a holiday. He suspected, now more than ever, that the strict routine kept by Enchanters and Templars was in fact designed to keep the lower ranking mages and apprentices from noticing the passage of time, only realizing years had passed when they grew out of their robes.

Here, with the Dalish, it couldn't have been more different. Even though all he did for an entire month was observe and follow Theron closely, every day was strikingly different from the last. Instead of slogging by like glaciers as they had in the clammy Circle tower, they roared past like forest fires. On his third day in the camp proper, a halla escaped from the pen, possibly aided by one of the older elvhen children. The beast had careened through the camp, bounding over the fire pit with ethereal grace, yet knocking over Anders' tent when it drew near to him--an action that he suspected was in retaliation for his earlier comments about halla being "big deer." The hunters chased it for an hour, and it led them in circles around the camp, making no attempt to escape into the woods surrounding it. Finally, when it appeared to have either had its fun or worn itself out, it slowed to a trot in front of Theron and let him lead it back into the pen.

The following day the hunters went out and came back with the carcass of a great boar, and the clan broke out in overjoyed exultation. One of the older elves--Anders had yet to be introduced to a great majority of the clan--began playing a lute and singing in elvish while the hunters laid the carcass on an oilcloth blanket to butcher it. After removing the hooves, tail, and most of the teeth--for trophies, Theron explained--they scraped the fur off of the hide with sharp blades and sliced it open to remove the entrails. Then they impaled the animal with a large dowel and carried it to the fire to place it on the spit. There, after a handle was tied to the dowel, Merrill and a few of the other women spent the day tending to it. For most of the day and well into the night the camp smelled like fragrant roasted meat and herbs. They ate long after the moon had risen, carving slices of hot pork off of the side while it was still roasting and passing them around on wooden plates. The next few days were a flurry of cooking and preserving. Away from the cooking fire, the elves built one with green wood and smoked large pieces of heavily salted leftover pork. They preserved the feet in jars with wild onions, garlic, and vinegar, and used the bones and other bits to make an enormous pot of stew.

After he spent a month with the clan, several of the women took Anders fishing, patiently showing him how to bait hooks made from scrap metal or twisted sewing needles. To everyone's surprise, he took to it magnificently, bringing six large carp back to the camp while the women who'd taken him only caught three between them. A certain amount of trust was granted to him then, and several times a week, the younger adults would take him to the river and fish, lazily chatting with him as though he were simply from another clan.

Three months in, the women let him care for Hanna so long as he was within the camp proper, no longer wrenching her from him when she gravitated towards him. Often, at night, after dinner, when he would join the clan around the cooking fire to eat, Hanna would plop herself into his lap and smile up at him beatifically, resting her little body contently back on him when he patted her head. Merrill explained that it wasn't so much that the elder women trusted him more, but that Hanna's infatuation had grown so strong that it was too much of a bother to keep her away from him. Whatever the reasoning, Anders looked after his charge dutifully, keeping her out of trouble and cleaned up.

Four months in, they gave Anders a knife, a mortar and pestle, and access to the clan's stock of elfroot, herbs, and oils. With Theron observing while he made arrows, Anders made elfroot poultices by the dozens, focusing so intently on the familiar work that he lost track of time, only rousing from his trance when his stomach growled. Within a week he had quadrupled the clans back stock of poultices. Merrill sat down with him and a list of recipes written in crude pictograms and misspelled words to teach him others, only to find that not only did he know them, but he could also write proper, complete recipes for the rest of the clan.

Weather, Anders learned, also did much to make the days seem more unique. When it rained, the heat would break, but it would also drive half the clan into their aravels to stay dry. Though Anders was still not allowed into the landships, Merrill and Theron helped him build a less fragile shelter. Instead of just a tent, he had a lean-to made from uneven logs and covered in oilcloth that could be folded down to cover the open side. It was still a far cry from the exquisite landships, but it was better than the tent, which seemed to fall down once every two days. It gave him more privacy, and since they also gave him an unused crate, a place to store his things. When the rain came down heavy for hours, he would rest under the lean-to, and by the light of tallow candles in broken glass jars, he would read the books the clan had finally given him access to.

Throughout all of this, Theron remained his constant companion. Though Anders suspected that Marethari would have relieved him of his duty had he asked, Theron never seemed to question her about it. Merrill, who seemed fond of Theron, often spent time with the two of them, and provided a welcome contrast to Theron's serious reticence. She was fascinated by stories of the circle and of human settlements, and would often batter him with questions to which he had few answers, but enjoyed talking about anyway. Theron remained quiet and somewhat withdrawn, though the character of his silence had shifted from irritable to placid--a change that Anders almost wished hadn't come.

It was easier for Anders to ignore his ever-growing curiosity about Theron when he was constantly just on the edge of hostility, but when he would sit with Anders in companionable quiet, answering questions and occasionally making soft, easy conversation, Anders would find himself unable to think about anything other than his pretty face and the melodious flow of his voice. On the odd occasion that Theron was not following him closely, he found that rather than relish the freedom, he instead felt abandoned.

One night, long after everyone had gone to sleep, Anders lay dozing in his lean-to, lulled to sleep by a dull tome of Ferelden geography and the soft patter of rain on the oilcloth. A cool breeze woke him, and he opened his eyes to find the oilcloth "door" to his lean-to had been lifted. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but when they did, he saw Theron just outside his lean-to, stretching one arm above his head to hold up the oilcloth. He wore only trousers, as was often the case for most of the elves in the balmy forest, and he must not have been out in the rain long, because he was barely wet, just dusted with a light mist that glittered in the dim light cast by his candles. Before Anders could question him, Theron was inside of the lean-to, and the oilcloth was down again.

The shelter was not built for two people, and in an effort to respect Theron's space, he pushed himself to the back wall, uneven wood jabbing him in the spine. Theron drew nearer until Anders could no longer retreat, close enough that he could smell pine and cedar and fresh water on his skin, like some kind of woodsy cologne. Anders closed his eyes to block out the beautiful contrast of dark rusty hair against his pale skin, trying to clear his head, but he felt a warm hand on his cheek and without thinking, leaned into it like an animal starved for affection. Theron stroked his cheek, his calloused fingers lightly scraping his overgrown whiskers, the noise oddly loud in contrast to the drum of rain atop the oilcloth.

"Theron," Anders said helplessly, opening his eyes to see Theron's face all too close, his pale green eyes wide and ethereal, bearing none of his usual reticence. Theron kissed him then, his lips hot and slightly damp, his tongue sweet when it slipped into his mouth. Anders buried his fingers into Theron's loose hair, drawing him closer, groaning deep and low when Theron climbed atop of him, the curtain of his hair heavy on either side of Anders' face.

Theron didn't speak, but Anders expected that. The warm press of his body was more than enough communication, and if he spoke as well, it might have overwhelmed him completely. When they no longer kissed, Anders brushed the soft weight of his hair over his shoulders to expose the side of his neck that bore the jagged red scar. Theron leaned down against Anders' body, as if giving him permission to fulfill the fantasy that had grown within him after first seeing the awful scar behind his right ear. Anders pressed his lips to the ropy scar tissue, and felt the heat of Theron's neck and the thud of his pulse under his lips. Theron sighed contentedly while Anders kissed that scar again and again, as if his adoration could erase the pain it had caused, as if it could make him whole again.

Anders' head was muddy. He was unsure how his clothes had come off, or when Theron had pushed inside of him, but his body ached and thrummed with heady fire. With every thrust he cried out, not conscious enough of his surroundings to worry what the clan might think to hear the noise from his lean-to. With closed eyes he reached for Theron, to hold his hips as he rocked against him, into him, and found nothing there.

Anders opened his eyes to the wood and oilcloth roof of his lean-to, alone, shaking himself from sleep to the sound the rain drumming heavily on the roof. He was alone, and that isolation was worse now that in his minds eye he could see Theron leaning over him, even smell him, though he realized that the odor of pine and cedar had come from the wood used to build his shelter. Though he tried, he was unable to ignore the throbbing ache between his legs, but his cock was painfully hard, his balls tight, and just breathing sent sparks of electricity down his spine.

Tilting himself enough to lift a corner of the oilcloth, he peered outside into the rainy darkness, realizing that the elves had either yet to come out of the aravels or had returned to them while he slept. He sighed and lowered the cloth, desperately wanting something beyond being alone with his thoughts and his stiff cock straining against his smallclothes. He tried not to think of Theron, which meant he thought of him immediately, of his pretty eyes and his braided hair, his elongated ears, and his firm, slim body. The ache between his legs grew, and Anders put a hand over his face, groaning into it. 

Unable to push Theron out of his mind, he embraced him there, replaying the sensation of his lips again and again as he freed his cock from his smallclothes, ignoring, for now, the implications of his interest building into a crush as he stroked his cock. Pleasure was fleeting, but he drew it out as long as he could, dropping his hand from his shaft to brush his fingers against his balls, holding onto the anticipation and the fantasy for as long as he could before spilling on his stomach. The guilty realization that he had nothing to clean himself up with came to him only when his pulse came down. He groaned and covered his eyes with his arm after cleaning himself off with a spare robe and balling it up to the side of his crate to remind himself to wash it tomorrow.

Were Anders still in the circle, his main concern with his infatuation with Theron would have been the Templars finding out to use his feelings against him, and as he lay on his side with his cleared thoughts and his slowing heart, he realized he had no idea how to proceed. The elves would likely be just as hostile as Templars in response to the idea of him courting one of their clan members, and he had the feeling that Theron would react to his affection similarly to the way he reacted to the crow that liked following him around--as a barely tolerated annoyance.

But as Anders dozed off again, this time aware of the oncoming sleep, a wonderful thought crossed his mind: whatever happened, he was falling in love, and the Chantry couldn't stop him.


	13. Chapter 13

The balmy summer gave way to cool autumn, and when Theron left his aravel one chilly morning, it was to find Anders already awake, shivering by the well-tended fire in the center of the camp. He had carried his blanket from the lean-to and sat with it bunched around his shoulders like a shawl. Despite the chill, his smile was warm when he noticed Theron approaching, and he sat up straighter, as if he were trying to make himself more presentable. Without words, Theron fetched stoneware cups and an iron kettle from the outside storage panels on one of the larger aravels. After filling the kettle from a nearby rain barrel, he placed it in the sand at the fire. When it whistled, he added a mixture of raspberry leaves, yarrow, and dandelion roots to the boiling water and let it steep. He then sat beside Anders at the fire in the silence of the chilly morning, and when enough time had passed, he poured for Anders first.

“Is it cold in your shelter?” he asked once they both held cups of steaming tisane.

“It’s good for keeping out the rain,” Anders said slowly while peering into his cup. “But the wind comes right through. It was so cold last night I could barely sleep,” he added.

Theron frowned. “I can shore it up, but it was never meant to be permanent. I don’t know what you’re going to do when we move.”

“Will that be soon?”

Theron shrugged. “Normally I would think so. We’ve been here too long, but with winter coming, it seems like we’re staying.” Rolling the cup between his hands to warm them, he glanced up while Anders drank from his. Above the fire, the sky was foggy grey, a sign that it would begin to rain in earnest soon. This would be the third winter the clan spent in the same place, and the stagnation made him anxious.

"That seems to bother you."

"It does," Theron said. He took a sip from his cup and watched the flames lick the half-burned logs on the edge of the fire. "We rarely spend more than a season or two in one place, much less three years." One of the halla snorted loudly from their pen and Theron glanced in that direction. "We normally move when we've picked an area clean of game, but these woods are still thick with deer and boar. The rabbits alone would sustain a larger clan for a year."

"So, my shelter?" Anders urged softly.

"I'm not a craftsman," he replied with a sigh. "But I will see what I can do. I can probably fill the cracks with clay." He tapped his chin with one finger. "If I lined the inside with fur or hide..." He eyed him. "It would be easier if the Keeper just let you stay in an aravel. You have all but joined the clan, as it is."

"You don't sound pleased about that, either." Anders pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, settling in further.

"Do I ever?" Theron asked with a sardonic smile.

"Not that I can recall, no." Anders finished his tisane and set the empty cup beside him. "I'd like it if you were, someday." There was an odd note in his voice. Theron stood up, an uneasy feeling rushing over him at the heaviness of Anders' gaze on him. "I would really love to see you happy."

Theron shook his head as if to disagree as he walked away from Anders and the warmth of the fire. The morning mist was cold on his skin, but he ignored the gooseflesh rising on his arms as he checked the traps on the outskirts of camp, finding a live rabbit in a snare and setting it free. The camp had meat enough for months, even with winter coming, so killing a solitary rabbit for one stew and a scrap of fur was pointless.

The sound of a footfall came from somewhere behind Theron, and his ears twitched upwards to pinpoint the direction. As it seemed to come from the camp, he turned, expecting to find Anders following him. Instead, Tamlen, his eyes still ringed with sleep, stood in his nightclothes, watching him reset the traps.

"Today's the big day, lethallin," he said with sarcasm thick in his familiar voice. "I'll be announcing my betrothal to Aglaia this afternoon."

"What?" Theron dropped the snare he was holding, his heart thundering in his throat. The camp narrowed until all that there was was Tamlen and him and the small space between them. "When did this happen?"

"While you were teaching your shem to cut scales from a fish, or to chop firewood, or any of the other lessons you've given him on how to be an elf--it's a wonder you ever remember anyone else lives here, how wrapped up with him you are."

"He's my responsibility. You heard the Keeper say that herself." Theron furrowed his brow, a chill rising in his stomach. "You're angry at me," he said, his voice hushed in disbelief. "For obeying the Keeper?"

"I'm not angry," Tamlen said, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. "But this whole thing has gone on too long, don't you think? If Marethari wants to treat this shem like an elf, then let her be the one to teach him the way to the bow." Tamlen kicked a stone at his feet, watching as it bounced into the forest. "This is foolish."

Theron searched Tamlen's face as he glared pointedly, not at Theron, but past him. "What does your betrothal have to do with me doing the Keeper's bidding?" he asked carefully.

"Nothing," Tamlen spat, then crossed his arms over his chest. "I just would have rather had your support when she demanded I accept Aglaia's offer, lest she trade me to another camp."

Frowning gently and bringing his teeth down onto his lower lip, Theron moved to place his hand lightly on Tamlen's cheek. He took a deep, nervous breath. "You have always had my support, along with my love." he said softly. Tamlen raised his brows. "I have always loved you, and I've never wanted to see you married off," he said, his confession coming fast now that it had begun, the wall of fear that held back those words now crumbling. "But you will be staying with the clan, with me, that's what matters, doesn't it?"

Gently, Tamlen took Theron's hand by the wrist and removed it from his cheek, turning his eye from Theron's gaze, faint redness on his cheeks. "I thought you'd grown out of this--" Tamlen swallowed and shook his head. "This silly infatuation."

Something taut as a bowstring snapped within Theron, and a burning flush rose to his ears. All the while the chill in his stomach solidified into ice as he stared into the face of his oldest friend, and felt an angry beast roar within him. "Infatuation?" he whispered. In the reflection in Tamlen's eyes he saw him stumbling out of his aravel, his trousers undone. He saw himself on his knees in the woods outside of camp, Tamlen resting his hand on the back of his head while he fellated him. He saw Tamlen rolling his eyes at his protests, and the lack of remorse when they were caught. "I came to your bed because you asked me to. I followed you outside of camp to shirk my duties a thousand times because you asked me to!" His voice grew loud as he continued. "I have only ever wanted to make you happy, and you say 'silly infatuation' as if I were a child?"

"Theron, please." His sarcasm had lost its teeth, and he glanced awkwardly at the frost on the ground at his feet.

"Do not!" Theron took a step towards Tamlen, holding out one hand, index finger pointed to jab at Tamlen's chest. He nearly laughed at the absurdity when Tamlen stumbled back from him. "Why would you fuck me if you thought I was such a fool? Did you ever care for me, Tamlen, or did you just like knowing that I would never disagree with you?"

"Lethallin, you know I care--"

"Do I? I thought this jealousy over the time I spent teaching Anders was because you cared, but what, then? Were you just unhappy that you'd lost my full attention? Are you that selfish?"

"That shem shouldn't even be here!" Tamlen shouted, his face red, though it seemed to Theron to be more from embarrassment than anger, as he looked around as if to find a place to which he could escape the confrontation.

"He takes care of Hanna," Theron said, his voice steady. "He make poultices more quickly than anyone in the clan, and does anything else we ask of him, all without ever complaining. His presence does not harm the clan, it is a benefit."

"He's not Dalish, and that's all that should matter."

"Pol was not Dalish when he came from the Alienage."

"Then turn your affections on your shemlen, if he's so wonderful," said Tamlen with a frown. "I never wanted them, and you're not making me feel guilty about not returning feelings you never admitted to! It was only ever sex, Theron. Just pleasure. If I'd known you thought it was more, I never would have touched you."

"Unbelievable," Theron hissed, and pushed past Tamlen to walk back to his aravel on the other side of camp. Only three steps in, he nearly collided with Anders, who raised his hands in immediate surrender, careful not to touch him.

"I, uh, heard my name," Anders apologized.

"And everything else, I take it?" Theron asked, releasing a long, hissing sigh when Anders nodded sheepishly. "Leave me be," Theron said firmly, and this time pushed past him, fists balled, ignoring the elves who had stuck their heads out aravels when the shouting began.

"Don't you even start with me, shem," Tamlen muttered when Anders glanced at him.

"I'm a mage," Anders said with one brow raised. "I don't have to 'start' anything. I could bring a rain of fire down on you before you even drew a blade, which I notice you don't even have."

"You're threatening me?" Tamlen asked, his brows darting up into his hairline. "I'm sure the Keeper would like to know that you're not as tame as she seems to think."

Anders laughed. "Yes, because I'm such a danger, what with owing my freedom to this clan."

Tamlen bared his teeth at Anders and took a step towards him, appearing to have miscalculated, as once he took it, he seemed to only then notice the height difference between the two of them. "I don't care if everyone else thinks you're the reincarnation of Sylaise! You are a shem and Theron should have killed you where he found you!" Despite the size difference, Tamlen made a move to shove himself past Anders, his face boiling with anger. Anders grabbed his shoulder and turned him around where he stood, letting Tamlen throw off his hand and hiss, "Don't you touch me, shem!"

"I spent ten years of my life as a prisoner," Anders said, his voice low. "If you don't think I would do anything to stay free, then you have no idea what kind of man I am."

Tamlen let out a bark of laughter. "Like it matters, the Keeper's so proud that she's domesticated a shemlen that she'll be parading you around at the next Arlathven on a leash. Now go back to being a simpering child and get out of my way."

"You will stop this right now, or both of you will suffer the consequences." Both Anders and Tamlen turned to see Marethari, her staff strapped to her back, standing with her arms folded over her chest. Behind her was Merrill, bright-eyed and silent. "Are you children, or are you men?" She turned her attention to Tamlen, who hung his head. "And you. You know better than to question my judgment, and I am extremely disappointed by what I have heard. I am the Keeper, not you, and my decisions are not up for debate." She turned to Anders, who held his head high. "And you will do well not to make veiled threats to my hunters, regardless who starts it."

"Yes, Keeper," he said deferentially, bowing his head slightly.

"You will not get into my good graces with displays of obedience, so do not attempt to mollify me." Turning again to Tamlen, Marethari frowned. "You will spend the rest of the day splitting firewood to work off that anger, da'len. And you, Anders, I want you in my sight for the rest of the day. Perhaps you can begin teaching Hanna her letters." Both Tamlen and Anders nodded. "And if I ever catch you two carrying on like children again, there will be much harsher punishments." Tamlen opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and glared at Anders. "Go, both of you. You know where to find the axe, and you know which aravel Hanna is in." Marethari pointed and watched the two of them walk away, a light sigh escaping from her lips.

"Do you want me to keep an eye on Anders, Keeper?" Merrill asked in a small voice.

"No, I don't think so. I would like you to take Theron his breakfast and tell him that he is relieved of his duties for the day, but also let him know that I would appreciate if he did not hide in his aravel all day."

"Of course, Keeper," Merrill said, and bowed her head similarly to Anders before walking away.

"Mythal," Marethari murmured as she looked up at the clearing sky. "This will be the death of me."


	14. Chapter 14

After the confrontation with Tamlen, Theron spent five long days alone inside of his aravel. Merrill took food to him twice daily, but otherwise the clan made no attempt to coax him out of his little landship. Anders expected Marethari to order him out on the third day, but as far as he was able to tell, she paid no attention to the fact that one of her hunters had locked himself away from the rest of the clan. Anders was struck by how little anyone seemed to care, as if occasionally disappearing for a prolonged sulk was simply something they expected of Theron. He was startled to feel a contemptuous sort of anger growing in him with each passing day, the same sort of anger he'd felt when an apprentice was spirited away in the night, never to be seen again, having presumably failed their Harrowing.

"Someone ought to check on him," he said to Merrill, more sharply than he intended. His tone was so curt that it disturbed Hanna, who had been comfortably lazing in his lap. The little girl rolled to her feet, eyeing him oddly as she wandered off.

"It isn't that nobody cares." Merrill spoke with deep conviction, though Anders thought some of it might have been forced. "I told you once that Theron feels things very deeply, didn't I?" Anders nodded, and she continued. "Well, I think sometimes it's just best to let him feel."

"You also said he was lonely," he reminded her. A flush rose in her cheeks, tinging her ears nearly magenta as it made its way to the twitchy little tips. Anders had quickly learned that an elf's ears were a better indicator of emotions than the entire range of their facial expressions, and while Merrill kept her face neutral, the embarrassment evident on her ears made him shake his head in frustration. "You aren't really afraid of him, are you?"

"No!" Merrill's answer was too sharp and immediate to be anything but angry indignation. " _They_ might be, but I'm not!" she insisted. "He is a very good man, and you're right that someone should talk to him." Merrill's pretty, cherubic face crinkled. "I've been trying, you know, but he's been very stubborn. I can't force him to do anything; you know _that_ too."

"I'm sorry." Anders rubbed the back of his neck through the furry collar he now wore to stave off the deepening autumn chill. "It's just...in the Circle, people got forgotten. They were taken from their families and brought to that prison and forgotten, like they never mattered."

"Theron matters," Merrill said with surprising force, and Anders smiled. Out of all of the adults in the camp, he thought he might have the most genuine affection for her. Theron occupied a much less pure, more muddled space in his mind, but Merrill was sweet and good and he liked her for it.

"I think he does too, and I also think he's likely to be forgotten just like the mages if somebody doesn't remind him how important he is."

Merrill examined Anders' face in silence, staring so intently that he had to stand to escape her gaze. "You're going to talk to him, aren't you?" she asked, amazement evident in both her voice and her expression.

"He's been angry with me since I met him." Anders shrugged as he strode off in the direction of Theron's aravel. "It's not as if I'm going to ruin our devoted friendship," he murmured to himself.

Initially, he thought Theron would simply ignore his knock. As inscrutable as he found him, Anders was fairly certain that all behavior had a predictable pattern. It might shift slightly in intensity and arrangement from person to person, but experience told him that someone nursing an angry hurt was unlikely to enjoy being confronted about it. But to his surprise, Theron poked his head out of the door on the third knock. When he saw who was on the other side, his face crumpled into a weary frown and he shut the door hard.

He hadn't been sleeping, that much Anders could tell even in the brief glance he'd gotten of Theron's striking face. There were dark half-moons under his pale eyes, and even his anger was listless. He wouldn't have been surprised if Theron had cried himself out as well, and wouldn't have judged him were that the case. Anders rapped on the door again, firm but not so much that he rattled the entire door in its frame.

The door swung open again. "You are persistent," Theron said in the same tone that someone might say _I hate you_ or _There is a cockroach in my bed_. "Why are you so damned persistent?"

"And here I thought it was a rather charming trait," Anders said amicably. "I haven't had someone so cross with me for determination since the Templars tossed me into solitary." Though his tone was painfully cheerful, darkness crossed his face for a second longer than he would have liked. Theron saw it, reinforcing Anders' suspicion that elves, on top of seeing farther and better in darkness, had some sort of quickness to their vision that humans lacked. _Or maybe_ , he thought, _you're just slow_.

He only noticed now that Theron was shirtless and sweating, a combination that was uncomfortably luscious. The dream he'd tried so hard to forget was once again in the forefront of his mind, briefly overriding all of his concern. It returned quickly when a frigid wind struck him, and he knew with as cold as it was outside of the aravels, sweating like that only meant one thing. Theron might have been sulking, but he was also very ill.

"You have a cold," he said, feeling idiotic when Theron rolled his eyes.

"It takes the best healer to escape the Circle to tell me that, does it?" Theron asked, and Anders blinked at him in surprise. He didn't remember boasting about his skills to Theron--only Tamlen, and he wondered if Tamlen passed it on as gossip. He wondered how much Theron cared to talk to Tamlen anymore, now that he had all but admitted using him for a cheap thrill. He suspected very little, and that thought gave him a smug little twinge that dissolved immediately into guilt.

"No. I'm sure anyone could have told you, had you come out at all in the last week. But you didn't, and I'm here now."

"So, I'm stuck with you," he said, and though his face was impossible to read, Anders was certain he caught a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Just like the crow," Anders agreed, his face breaking into a wide smile as he inclined his head to the big black bird roosting on the roof of the aravel.

Theron heaved a long-suffering sigh and retreated into his aravel, leaving the door open behind him. Anders was immediately sure that this was as warm an invitation as he could expect, and took the wooden steps into the landship, manic curiosity filling him at the promise of his first peek inside one of the gorgeous aravels.

He had to duck inside. The ceiling was low, and from it, Theron had hung a half-dozen of what he originally thought were glass jars. It took him a moment of staring to realize that they were not jars, but the bottoms of bottles, somehow carefully separated from the majority of the bottle without leaving a jagged edge. Inside there were unlit candles. At night, he was sure they would cast a warm flickering light, and the idea of sitting in an aravel under those candles with the darkness kept at bay gave him a sensation much like homesickness.

The aravel's walls sloped gently outwards, calling to mind the inner side of a bowl. The wood was polished to a shine, and Anders lifted a hand to brush his fingertips lightly across the varnished surface. Though it was perfectly smooth to his touch, there were intricate carvings in the wood, displaying scenes of trees and animals that held no meaning for him. But he was certain they were of great importance; the time it had taken to carve these tableaus into the wood, then fill them with varnish to make the walls one smooth surface must have been immense.

Deeper into the aravel there were shelves and benches carved into the walls, and with childish delight, Anders noticed the hinges on the seats of the benches on either side. The desire to lift them, tossing off the threadbare cushions to see what was inside was almost unbearable. On the shelves were assorted things: earthenware cups, folded cloth, old books, gloves, a bowl of what looked like animal teeth, and dried flowers, which made Anders smile.

The floor of the aravel was made of the same wood as the walls and was as carefully polished. Pushed up against the wall next to the door was what looked like an urn with a lid and a large hole carved out of one side. It was full of ashes, a few near-dead embers confirming his suspicion that it was a small wood stove, likely meant to heat the aravel in the deep winter. The kettle sitting on the floor next to it called up fantasies of sitting in the aravel while an ice storm raged outside, warm, comfortable, and sipping tea.

"Wow," Anders said quietly, standing stock still just inside of the door, so intent on examining his new surroundings that he'd entirely forgotten Theron.

There was nothing in the way of furniture other than the benches, but just past them there was a curtain that looked as though it was made from an old tapestry, and it was drawn. There could have been anything behind it in the half of the aravel that was hidden from him, and his curiosity felt like a compulsion.

"Close the door," Theron said, agitated, and Anders broke from his trance to do just that. Theron had lowered himself onto one of the benches and was resting his head back against the wall, his eyes closed.

"Do you have a cough?" Belatedly remembering why Theron had allowed him inside, Anders sat across from him on the opposite bench, eyeing his wan face. Theron shook his head. "Does your neck feel swollen?" Theron shrugged. Anders rose. "May I touch your neck to find out for myself?"

Theron's eyes opened and there was building anger within them, but it winked out before it grew into anything more than a warning.

"I won't touch your scar."

"It's fine." Theron tilted back his head, exposing his neck, and Anders stood before him, a click in his suddenly arid throat. Maker, but he was beautiful.

Gingerly he lifted his hands and cupped either side of Theron's neck, careful to avoid touching the scar on his right side. Theron twitched when his fingers first brushed his skin, but did not protest beyond that. His skin was clammy with sweat and just under the lean cords of muscle, Anders felt hard swollen lumps. He had what he needed, confirmation that whatever had sickened Theron was still working in his body, but he still cupped his throat tenderly, unable to resist the urge to slip his fingers further back to brush across that ropey, vicious scar. He had said it was fine, after all. Theron only sighed, and Anders heard the whistling in his chest as he drew breath. Anders began tracing the line of that scar, warmth rushing through him at the fantasy fulfilled, when he felt the iron grip of Theron's hands on both of his wrists.

"Do _not_ try to heal it," Theron said. His voice was weary, but underneath that pall of exhaustion there was a sharpness that almost sounded like fear.

"I won't. I want to," he admitted, "but I won't."

"So you touched my neck." Theron spoke as though hadn't heard him, but his grip relaxed. "What did you learn from that?"

"Without something, either healing or medicine, you won't be well for some time. As far as I know, we don't have any of the medicine I would normally suggest for a cold like this, so I can try my best to heal you with magic."

"Try?" Theron raised one brow as he released Anders' wrists entirely.

"It's never exact for something like this." Anders shrugged and sat beside him. "I can mend bones and cuts easily, but colds..." Frowning, he drummed his fingers against his leg. "They're more subtle. I can't _see_ the problem, or visualize it, and that makes it hard."

Theron made a noncommittal sound, then closed his eyes again. "Do what you can," he said after a brief silence.

Holding his hands in front of Theron's chest without touching him, Anders closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath, then another, and after the third, the eerie sensation of existing in two places at once came over him. He felt the Fade and he felt the cool air inside Theron's aravel. Behind his closed lids there was both the dim, shuttered sunlight and the green-gold glow of his personal corner of the Fade. He felt both Theron, worn down and sad beneath his stalwart surface, and the comforting familiar presence of a spirit, _his_ spirit, the one that always lent him the burst of benevolence when he wanted to use his magic to heal. He felt his fingertips grow warm, and the air around him charge. Then he was no longer in the Fade as well as the world, just in Theron's aravel, and a wave of deep, profound compassion swept through him. He wanted to help he needed to help he wanted wellness and comfort and gentle mending and he needed to touch him again to do it. For just a second, he rested his fingers on Theron's collarbone, and with a sigh, that urgency left him. He felt Theron shiver as he lifted his hands and took a step back.

"That should help with the worst of it," Anders said, suddenly feeling intense exhaustion. _A nap would be wonderful_ , he thought, finding it necessary to stifle a yawn.

“I do feel better,” Theron said, and got to his feet with less fatigue than before. His eyes were sharper, but there was none of his customary guard within them. His body might be healing, but his mind was still off-balance.

Offering him a sympathetic smile, Anders rubbed his now sweaty hands on his upper thighs. “You should rest for a bit longer--healer’s orders this time.” Theron only nodded, and as he drew near, Anders realized he was being silently corralled to the door. “If you start feeling worse, tell Merrill and I’ll come back.” At the door, the desire to rest was powerful, and Anders rested his hand against the smooth wall for a moment to gather himself.

“I will be fine,” Theron said quietly, and underneath it there was nothing, no bite, no sarcasm, no exasperation.

“Healer’s orders,” Anders repeated, and this time Theron rolled his eyes. The familiar action brought the smile to Anders’ face. “Don’t be like that. I care for you, and I wa--” Anders choked off his words before he could continue, sinking his teeth down into his tongue at what had slipped out. Theron looked stricken. The tips of his ears were redder than Merrill’s had been just moments before, and Anders pulled open the door of the aravel, suddenly intent on escape. Theron said nothing, and Anders jogged down those little steps, no relief coming at the familiarity of the firm ground under his feet when he cleared them.

The door shut behind him before he could get another look at Theron’s face. Without attempting to stifle a groan, he trudged back to his lean-to, not even finding the strength to chastise himself for the stupidity he felt. He was certain Theron, stoic, reticent, and composed, didn’t want to hear any declarations of affection from his clan, much less him.

“Andraste’s knickers, is it really necessary that you ruin everything?” he muttered to himself as he collapsed into his lean-to, drawing the oilcloth to block out the midday sun.Though he was exhausted--spent from healing, he found he couldn’t sleep, and for what felt like a long time, he simply stared at the ceiling of his little shelter, flooded with irritable disappointment.


End file.
